


A Fate Worse Than Death

by pagination



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Aliens, Crack, Footnotes, Humor, M/M, Not Beta Read, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-05-27 04:17:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6269359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagination/pseuds/pagination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where does one go for help when one is the anthropomorphic personification of death, and having problems with one's love--for lack of a better word--life?</p><p>Maybe not the Avengers.</p><p>Probably not the Avengers?</p><p>No, definitely not the Avengers.</p><p>Eh. Let's go ask the Avengers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introducing The End

**Author's Note:**

> I apparently wrote this back in . . . I don't remember. It was more than a year ago, anyway. I haven't posted anything since September though, and even though I've written almost 150k words of fanfic in the interim, I have yet to finish or post any of it. I'm feeling a tiiiiiiiny bit ashamed of myself. 
> 
> So. Have a slow trickle of this one. Originally partially posted to a kink-meme somewhere, I forget where. Not bothering with beta because I wrote it while a lot drunk and if I could muster up shame I wouldn't post it at all.

On a planetary wasteland that had once been home to billions of cheerful, friendly little green creatures with a passion for clockwork oranges1, a solitary figure was standing.

It was an imposing figure, as far as figures went. It was certainly a striking one. Looking at the figure, one received the impression that fields of death were its natural background. Its _milieu_ , if you will. It wasn’t the kind of figure one would see standing knee-deep in corpses and greet with, “Funny, I wouldn’t have expected to see you here.” It _might_ have been the kind of figure that one would greet with, “Oh crumbs, I thought I’d have more time than— _urk_ ,” which would handily take care of both hello and good-bye in one sentence.

The figure stood waiting. It had been waiting for a long time. Under its foot was a cheerful, friendly little green neck of a no longer cheerful or friendly kind.

Presently, the scene changed. Where there was one figure, suddenly there were two.

OH. IT’S YOU AGAIN, said the newcomer.

The first figure blushed.

WE MUST STOP MEETING LIKE THIS. The second figure looked around at the desolation of rotting corpses with the disapproval of a tidy housekeeper.

“I have been awaiting you with beating heart and bated breath.” 

YOU SAID THAT THE LAST TIME. IT SEEMS TO HAPPEN TO YOU A LOT. USUALLY IT ONLY HAPPENS TO PEOPLE THE ONE TIME. I SUPPOSE YOU’RE AN OVERACHIEVER.

“The might of Thanos strikes terror in the hearts of entire galaxies,” the first figure boomed.

DOES IT? The second figure asked politely. THAT’S PROBABLY FROM OVERWORK.

“It is not work. It is the expression of passion. It is—“

I WAS THINKING OF GOING ON HOLIDAY. I MIGHT TRY DRINKS IN SPIKY FRUITS WITH DECORATIVE PARASOLS. I’M TOLD THEY’RE ESSENTIAL TO THE VACATIONING EXPERIENCE.

Thanos paused to regroup. “I have destroyed this race,” he proclaimed, sweeping an arm around him. “This creature here is the last of his people, the ruler of an empire that stretched across a hundred suns.”

YES, I NOTICED THAT.

“For _you_ , my goddess, I make this offering.”

OH. There was a short, frigid pause. NOT THIS AGAIN.

“My love!” Thanos bellowed.

The second figure sighed. It peered down at the little green creature, which rolled two of its three eyes at him.

“What does it see when it looks at you?” Thanos asked.

ME, I IMAGINE. HELLO, Death said.

The little green creature wheezed.

“I see power,” Thanos declaimed. “I see majesty. I see the everlasting rule of darkness. I see beauty which I would raise a million altars, destroy a billion worlds, blot out a trillion suns, to worship.”

Death looked down at himself. He plucked morosely at the front of his robe. I SUPPOSE YOU SEE THE ONE WITH BREASTS.

Thanos fell to his knees, the little green emperor dangling from one flexed arm. “You are _glorious_.”

I’VE NEVER UNDERSTOOD THE FASCINATION WITH BREASTS. IT PROBABLY HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH GLANDS. NOT THAT I JUDGE. THAT’S NOT REALLY MY JOB.

“I love all of you,” Thanos said, with the ferocity of the fanatic. Or the poet. Or the salesman. “In all your incarnations. I am your thrall. Your slave. I fall at your feet. My heart, my soul, my life is yours.“

If an anthropomorphic personification could be said to look embarrassed, Death looked embarrassed. He shifted his bony grip on his scythe, which was suddenly more sword-shaped than it used to be. AH.I EXPECT THOSE WOULD BE FEELINGS.

“Feelings for _you_.”

MAYBE IF YOU DRANK SOME TEA AND TOOK A NICE LONG NAP, YOU’LL FEEL BETTER IN THE MORNING? Death suggested hopefully.

Thanos’s face was alight. “I dedicate the extinction of this race to you. My mistress. My queen. My love.” Muscles bulged. There was a dull, wet snap. Death’s sword flicked out in a gentle not-thereness of blue that passed through the alien ruler’s neck without leaving a mark.

“What a colossal _prick_ ,” said the little green emperor, scrambling to his feet. Thanos dropped the lifeless body at Death’s feet and bowed his head. The emperor attempted to kick him in the throat, to no effect. “Oh, _qvag_. Am I dead? I’m dead, aren’t I?”

I’M AFRAID SO. IF IT’S ANY CONSOLATION, YOU MET YOUR DEATH WITH DIGNITY. I’M TOLD THAT MATTERS TO SOME SPECIES.

“Funny. I thought I would be angrier about this.”

EMOTIONS DON’T COME WITH YOU. THAT’S STRICTLY AN ORGANIC PHENOMENON.

“That’s good,” the emperor said. “I have to tell you, I wasn’t feeling all that chipper in the end. Being dead though, after seeing him wipe out my entire species — not having emotions isn’t that bad. Kind of a relief, really. Something to look forward to. So to speak.”

SO I’VE HEARD. I’M AFRAID I WOULDN’T KNOW.

“Will I see the rest of my people on the other side? Since they’re all dead?”

THAT’S A DIFFERENT DEPARTMENT. WHAT COMES AFTER VARIES DEPENDING ON THE INDIVIDUAL, I’M TOLD.

The emperor shrugged philosophically, tried to kick Thanos again in the head, and failed. “Oh well. It was worth a try.” He sighed. “You know he’s planning on wiping out all sentient life and make a throne for you out of their bones? It’s kind of sweet. Romantic and sweet. And horrible. He seems to think that’ll light a fire under your caboose.”

The pinpoint blue stars that shone in Death’s eyesockets flickered. MY WHAT?

“Pin the tail on your _grakha'ck_. Plump the _kvee_ in your _z'orkebat_. Put the rah rah rah in your cha cha cha. I did crazy things for my first wife,” the emperor said nostalgically. He was already starting to fade. “I made her a garden when we were courting, and fertilized it with the blood of her lawyers. She stabbed me on our wedding night. What a corker. True love, you just can’t beat it.”

THAT HASN’T BEEN MY EXPERIENCE.

“Oh. Hah. I suppose you’d be the one to know, wouldn’t you?”

YOU COULD GO AS FAR AS TO CALL ME THE FINAL WORD ON THE SUBJECT. ON MOST SUBJECTS, REALLY.

“He can’t see me, can he?”

NO.

“I don’t suppose you’d do me a favor?”

I DON’T ACTUALLY—

“Can you give him the bird for me?2 Please?” All that was left of the emperor was an outline and a whisper of sound. “I feel like I should make some final statement on behalf of my people.”

HE CAN NO LONGER SEE ME.

“I always see you,” Thanos declared, fervent.

Death and the emperor looked at him.

“Aaaaaawkwaaaaaaard,” breathed the emperor, and disappeared.

ER, said Death. He looked down at himself. He thumped his chest experimentally. IS THIS ON?

“Speak to me,” Thanos said, creeping towards Death on his knees. One bloody hand grabbed for Death’s free one. Taken aback, Death let the Titan clutch his bony fingers in a reverent grip. “Tell me, what must I do to be worthy of you? I would lie with you. I would worship you with my body and my soul. I will burn the universe. I will blot out galaxies. I will—“

OH, BUGGER, said Death, and disappeared.

 

* * *

 

 

 _1\. It’s a strange multiverse, full of strange things. For instance, there’s a species in the Orion-Cygnus Arm that has a passion for deep-fried, bacon-wrapped, phallic-shaped yellow sponge cakes stuffed unironically with cream. On a stick. To be fair, their neighbors feel this is taking eccentricity too far, and the species be left alone to go extinct so local property values will improve._ [BACK]

 

2\. _It’s a curious fact that no matter the planet, the moment a species develops the beginnings of sentience, it will immediately invent: 1) a variation of sausage in a bun; and 2) an anatomically compatible version of the bird. Another curious fact is that it’s always called “the bird,” even on planets where no birds ever evolved. Strangely enough, on no planet have birds ever evolved enough intelligence or hostility to create their own version of the bird, proving yet again that: 1) the multiverse is odd; and 2) generally speaking, in order to find a real asshole, you mostly have to look to people._ [BACK]

 


	2. Bacon and Math

Death was discomposed.

It was an odd sensation. By and large, Death was what happened before decomposing took place, and was personified by the aftermath of the same. He was, if you will, both bookends of decomposition. To feel discomposed was, therefore, outside of his experience.3

It was by no means the first time he’d been worshipped or sought after as either a deity (which role was outside the scope of his duties and also of no personal interest) or as a romantic partner (which role was outside his physiological and psychological parameters and also of no personal interest). That said, most of his previous worshippers and suitors had been far less motivated. On a galactic scale.

“What is this, the sixth time you’ve run into him? The seventh?”

THE NINTH.

“I don’t see the problem,” his servant Albert4 said, busy frying toast and coffee on the kitchen stove. “So he sacrifices a few folks to you. People’ve always done that.”

Death was having difficulty articulating his unease. His job was, after all, his job. To be the cause of himself on such a massive scale was giving him metaphysical cramps.

IT IS INAPPROPRIATE, he said at last.

“Kind of nice, if you think about it. Always pleasant to have someone mashing on a body. Well, maybe not a body in your case. More of a … bodi- _less_ in your case.”

HE SEES ME AS FEMALE. FEMALE AND FLESHY.

Albert looked up, briefly interested. “Oh? You come with breasts, then? Never seen that one.”

FROM TIME TO TIME.

“Nice ones, are they?”

YES. THERE HAVE BEEN POEMS WRITTEN TO THEM, Death said. I NEVER SAW THE APPEAL, MYSELF.

“Maybe if I saw them, I could explain it to you.”

Sometimes, Death thought, Albert went out of his way to be unhelpful.

“Anyway, most people like it,” Albert finished. He poked the toast, which was bubbling peacefully, and turned it out onto a plate.

BREASTS?

“That, too. But I meant having someone romantically interested in you. Flattering, you know.”

Death was doubtful. IS IT?

“Presents are traditional for that kind of thing. It’s all correct and proper-like. Haven’t ever heard of anyone giving someone a genocide, though.”

I PREFER PRESENTS THAT COME IN BOXES. WITH RIBBONS. I LIKE RIBBONS.

“Does genocide fit in a box?”

IT WOULD HAVE TO BE A VERY LARGE BOX. PROBABLY LEAK-PROOF. He bent some more thought to the matter. AND ODOR-RESISTANT.

Albert nodded, not really listening. He cracked some eggs and slid rashers into the pan. “Some people give roses. Romantically, that is. Cheap trick, if you ask me. I used to give diamonds. Magic ones, of course. They didn’t last the night, but on the bright side, they lasted the night, if you get my meaning.”

Death didn’t get his meaning. I LIKE ROSES, he said wistfully. 

“Back in my day, women used to gab all the time about the men who were courting them,” Albert said nostalgically. “If you ask me, it's the only reason women're born with ears, so they could listen to each other blather on about their men. Gods know they never used ‘em to listen to anything _we_  said.”

AND THIS HELPED THEM SOMEHOW?

“Don’t know about that, but it seemed to make them happy.”

I AM NOT A WOMAN.

“Well, some blokes did it, too. Sometimes the ones who were, you know.“ Albert flapped a limp hand and simpered grotesquely. Death stared at him. He didn’t know. “Not that there was anything wrong with that,” Albert reassured. “Just meant more women for the rest of us, din’t it?”

Did it? Death ignored this on the grounds that he didn’t understand anything Albert had just said or done. He seized on the one relevant point he could.

I AM NOT A MAN. EVEN WITHOUT BREASTS.

“There is that.”

A silence fell. One could almost call it companionable.

After a while, Albert said, “You could just ignore him if he bothers you. It isn’t as though he’s not going to die eventually, right? The presents’ll have to stop then.”

IT ISN’T THE PRESENTS. IT’S THE NUMBER OF THEM.

“Why? How many is he killing? A few hundred?”

A FEW UNDECILLION.

“Undecillion? Don’t know that word. What’s that, then?”

A GREAT MANY, Death said, distracted. Albert sneaked a glance at him over the pan. Death was silent, his gaze distant. Assuming that his master was doing one of those Death-ly things that were beyond a mortal’s comprehension, Albert took a sip of his coffee. only to spray it out again when the blue stars of Death’s eyes suddenly went supernova.

There was a rattle of sound, like someone had dropped a wagonful of pencils down a flight of wooden stairs. Angry, feral, murder-crazed pencils.

Death stood up.

HE JUST KICKED A CAT, he said.

“That bastard,” Albert said, dabbing feebly at his shirt front.

THIS SIMPLY CAN’T GO ON, Death said. There were _limits_. I’M GOING OUT.

 

#

 

One might think that as Death, the single universal constant, one would have a great many options in terms of asking for romantic advice.

One would be wrong.

Let’s do the math, shall we? At any given moment, there were only 6,383,103,8871.45 worlds capable of supporting sentient life. Out of those, only .3% actually had sentient life living on it, leaving us with 191,493,116.6 planets. Planets that achieved sentient life averaged a population of 5 billion people, out of which a good 80% of species were not qualified to give advice due to their adherence to reproductive methods based on factors that precluded romance.6 Of those remaining, another 60% were disqualified due to age, general lack of interest, or inexperience.

99.7% of those remaining were disqualified due to romantic incompetence. Out of those, 2% were close enough to dying or had regular enough encounters with death that having a conversation with Death while still living was feasible. Only .11% of those would actually live long enough during that conversation to allow it to be meaningful.

And not that Death was judgmental (because he wasn’t) but even objectively, 99.9996% of the remainder were what Albert called ‘proper twats.’

41% of those that weren’t had to be excluded because they worshipped Death in some shape or form.7 An unsurprising 99.7% of the rest wouldn’t work because their problem-solving strategies to all romantic difficulties involved eating the entrails of the offending partner, which wasn’t practical for anthropomorphic personification reasons8.

Which left a grand total of twenty-six people in the multiverse that Death could actually go to for help with his love life.

He picked the one who had access to jello cups.

Because why not.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

3\. _Yes, looked at critically, “discomposed” and “decomposed” are completely different words. While solid on most facts specific to his job, Death had something of a blind spot on certain peripherally related subjects. Gardening with organic compost, for instance. The inheritance tax. And, more relevant to this footnote, etymology. Of course, when Death gets his vocabulary mixed up, who’s going to correct him?_ [BACK]

 

4\. _Imagine a bowl of chopsticks. Dribble bacon fat over them. Let the bacon fat cool, then tie the chopsticks to each other. Attach them to a coat hanger. Add a sprinkle of gray hair, a hint of fingerless gloves, an dash of faded winter scarf washed too many times with the wrong kind of laundry liquid, stale cigarette smoke, and insufficient vitamins A, D, E,  and Parsnip. There you have Albert, who decided two thousand years ago to become Death's servant instead of Death's customer. The position didn't exist at the time, Death neither needing nor wanting a servant, but Albert made it happen._

 _This is where most career advisors get it wrong. Get-up-and-go determination will only take you so far. To really succeed, you also need to have get-up-and-stay._  [BACK]

 

5\. _The '.4' in that count is due to a planet in Andromeda’s third arm, which supported sentient life until the sentient life blew up 60% of it in one of their planetary squabbles. This was not in itself an unusual occurrence. The common denominator in all sentient life is that it works very hard to sentient itself into extinction. What was unusual in this case is that the 40% remaining of the planet was still capable of supporting sentient life after they were done (albeit not the original sentient life, which had extincted itself along with the other 60% of the planet.)_

 _Sentience, as Death could tell you, is not synonymous with intelligence. Anyway, that errant decimal point irritated statisticians all across the multiverse, so really, it all worked out for the best._ [BACK]

 

6 _. In other words, their social and reproductive practices involved either parthenogenesis or common sense. Sometimes, if the species was especially ambitious, they did both._ [BACK]

 

7 _. Death is big in the multiverse, even without a PR team. Not only does he have a monopoly, he has an incredibly efficient distribution system. There’s also the fact that his is the one product nobody can live without._ [BACK]

 

8 _. As an anthropomorphic personification of death, Death didn't eat. However, when he did, he followed a mostly vegan diet. He acquired his daily requirement of calcium through tea and biscuits. The tea and biscuits were smart enough not to argue._ [BACK]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh ugh, footnote tagging. I was going to post this on Friday but then I remembered I don't have consistent internet access on Friday so decided to post today instead. Happy St. Patrick's Day!
> 
> Next week: the Avengers! More or less.


	3. Looking for Help in All the Wrong Places

Phil was unhappy. He would have gone so far as to say he was unhappy and confused, if he’d been lucid enough to pair thoughts with words. There was pain and muzziness; desolation and despair. Terror. Nick’s face lurched through his reality like a desaturated pipe dream. There was a lot of swearing, which he recognized the sound of if not the meaning. A memory of Loki’s staff poking through his chest. Hazy eyes over white masks. Lights. He had the vague notion that he’d been captured and was being tortured for information. He clung to that thought with relief, because there was a protocol for that, and he knew his duty.

“Stand down, you motherfucking—!” he heard, in Nick’s familiar bellow.

There was a lot more pain.

Then nothing.

And then … this.

SO WHAT DO YOU THINK?

It was an odd voice, familiar9, not quite there, like it had decided to skip the dreary mechanics of hearing and had gone straight for the brain.

 _What_? Phil tried. He could feel his lips just barely moving, but there was no sound to go with it.

THIS ISN’T WHAT I EXPECTED AT ALL, said the voice. It sounded depressed. I WAS TOLD THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO MAKE ME FEEL BETTER.

Through the extreme lassitude of drugs and exhaustion, Phil felt almost apologetic. He moved his lips again in a soundless, _sorry_.

IT CAN’T BE HELPED.

Silence fell. Through the fog, Phil heard the steady _beep beep beep_ and hiss of machines. Oxygen tube in his nose. It blotted out everything but the smell of plastic and, he realized through some olfactory tie-in to his saliva glands, extreme thirst.

He groped for water, or tried to. His fingers sort of twitched.

DO YOU NEED SOMETHING?

 _Water_ , he tried. This time he heard something like a croak. Was that him? It must have been him.

I’M SORRY. I SUPPOSE IT WOULD BE EASIER TO READ LIPS IF I HAD SOME.

His throat was killing him. Phil managed to get his fingers to twitch again.

_Thirsty._

AH, said the voice, sounding pleased. AS A MATTER OF FACT, IT’S FRIDAY.

Phil thought distantly about grinding his teeth, but he was too tired. In fact—

Death peered at the sleeping face of Phil Coulson, then settled down with his book. He’d wait until Phil woke up again, and then explain everything once more, slower. No rush. Time wasn’t a factor. When one was Death, one was exactly where one needed to be, when one needed to be there.

Also, he wanted to read this book.

He flipped to the back first, though. He always felt better knowing how things would end.

 

#

 

Time passed.

“Can’tsay … Iknow,” Phil whispered to his hallucination. “Never’ad … muchluckin … romance … ’self.”

The hallucination looked thoughtful, if one could attribute an expression to a grinning skull with blue LED’s for eyes. ON THE CONTRARY. YOU ARE MORE SUCCESSFUL THAN 100% OF THE MULTIVERSE.

“All … hun’red?”

I ROUNDED UP FOR CONVENIENCE.

“Couldn’even … tellClin’tha’ … Iwas. Int’reste’.”

I SEE. PERHAPS ROMANTIC SUCCESS IS RELATIVE.

Phil thought that might be sad. He rested a bit. Judge Judy was nattering on in the background.

I HAVE TOLD HIM THAT I’M NOT INTERESTED, the hallucination finally said.

Phil thought about chuckling, but decided it would hurt too much.

The hallucination sighed.

It took an effort, but Phil managed to move his hand just enough to pat at bony fingers. They were amazing drugs; the exposed phalanges actually felt solid under his touch. “Someguys … havetrouble … nomeaning … no.”

WHAT WOULD YOU DO?

“Ifhedin’ … accep’no?”

YES.

“Teach’im … less’n,” Phil murmured, feeling his eyelids getting heavier again.

The last thing he heard was a thoughtful hum.

 

#

 

Time passed.

The afterlife was a lot more like a telenovela than Phil had expected. Well. When in Rome….

I DON’T THINK HAVING SEXUAL RELATIONS WITH SOMEONE ELSE WOULD CONVEY THE MESSAGE I WAS HOPING FOR.

“Jus’ a thought,” Phil said with his eyes closed, pleased to hear himself articulating distinct words.

IS THERE ANY OTHER WAY TO MAKE SOMEONE LOSE INTEREST?

“Move?”

THAT ISN’T REALLY AN OPTION FOR ME.

“Quit?”

I’M AFRAID THAT ONE ISN’T EITHER.

“Agent Coulson?” he heard in a polite female voice. “Agent Coulson? Can you hear me?”

“Mm,” he hummed obligingly, while his unseen companion asked, CAN YOU THINK OF ANYTHING ELSE?

“You coul’ kill ‘im,” Phil said. “Tha’s pretty final.”

“I think he’s dreaming,” said the woman.

“He’s a SHIELD agent,” said a man. Phil felt fingers prying one eye open; something bright and painful shone in it. There were blurry shapes behind the glare. “He’s not dreaming. He’s probably planning something diabolical. They’re like heroin-crazed weasels in burlap sacks, the lot of them. Agent Coulson? Can you hear me? I’m Doctor Sarjinder. You’re in SHIELD Medical.” The other eye underwent the same uncomfortable light-in-eye treatment. 

It made Phil unhappy.

I’M AFRAID IT DOESN’T WORK LIKE THAT, said his companion, sounding equally unhappy.

Phil said philosophically, “Jus’ as well. No good, jus’ killing people. Can’t jus’ kill people.”

“Hm. Maybe he’s delirious,” said Dr. Sarjinder.

“Have t’make it count. Make sure, ’s worth th’ paperwork.”

“Never mind, I was wrong. He’s just being SHIELD. Agent Coulson? Can you move your fingers for me?”

PAPERWORK, said the voice, in the gloomy timbres of one who _knows_.

Phil had a sudden inspiration. Later on, he would blame it on the drugs. “Tony Stark,” he told the fireworks exploding on the movie screens of his eyelids. “Go Stark. He’ll have, good idea.”

HM, said the voice, and in the background Phil heard an appalled mutter, “Did he just say—?” and another voice, a familiar one, Jasper Sitwell cursing. “Shit, I think he has brain damage.”

 

 

#

 

Tony Stark was not on Death's list of twenty-six qualified candidates. Nor were any of the Avengers. On the other hand….

While the meaning of Albert’s limp-hand-flap-and-simper still remained something of a mystery to Death, he was certain that the person presently calling herself Natasha Romanov was female, and Albert had been clear about the female tendency towards gabbing. And even if Death wasn’t, strictly speaking, a _woman_ , he also wasn’t, strictly speaking, a _man,_ so he thought this might work just as well. Besides, he felt a certain affinity with her that he thought might help bridge any conversational difficulties.

He found her in the common living room of Stark Tower, cleaning one of her guns.

HELLO, he said.

She shot him in the head. Six times.

It was hardly the first time someone had tried to shoot him. Or stab him. Or electrocute or garrote or dismember him. Or, after Ms. Romanov narrowed her eyes at him and abandoned traditional weapons, glass him.10

On the other hand, it _was_ the first time someone had tried to strangle him with their thighs.

IS THIS ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY? he asked, professionally if not existentially pained, into Ms. Romanov’s stomach.

She dropped off of him, backflipping to a crouch several yards away, and glared at him through her hair.

“You’re really here,” she said in a cold, hard voice.

TECHNICALLY, I AM EVERYWHERE, he said. HOWEVER, I AM ALSO HERE.

“Are you here for me?”

ER, YES?

Ms. Romanov bared her teeth as she straightened, her shoulders relaxing as though a weight was unloaded from them. “How will it happen?” she asks. “Assassination? Accident? Aneurysm?”

I WAS ACTUALLY THINKING ABOUT TEA.

She paused, taken aback. “Poison in the tea?”

IF YOU LIKE, Death said, puzzled, but willing to accommodate the eccentric palate of a woman who did, after all, go by the name ‘Black Widow.’ I PREFER MILK IN MINE. YOU SEEM LIKE YOU’RE EXPERIENCING SOME STRESS. I FIND IT RELAXES PEOPLE TO HAVE TEA. He considered, then added hopefully, AND MAYBE SOME BISCUITS?

Which was when several other people burst in on them, all of them loud, and Death added ‘repulsor blasts to the chest’ as a new experience.11

They tickled.

 

* * *

 

 

 _9\. For every near-death experience that a person has, Death has a corresponding near-person experience. Death had six near-Phil experiences prior to picking him up on a helicarrier one extremely busy day, which explained the sense of familiarity. Being Death, he skipped the ‘life flashing before your eyes’ phenomenon. The only thing that ever flashed before Death’s eyes was the fourth near-Phil experience, when he got an unrestricted view of Clint Barton’s naked backside, and eleven minutes of one-on-one time with a disgruntled yak. He’s still not quite sure what that one was about._ [BACK]

 

_10\. “Glassing,” for those to who are unfamiliar, is a popular pastime on certain boredom-rich, humidity-high archipelagos, wherein participants become inebriated on the local liquid intoxicant, break the glass container the intoxicant came in, and then shove the broken pieces in another participant’s face by way of celebration._

_From an anthropological perspective, it’s a fascinating glimpse of the rich variety of ways in which societies choose to celebrate the scientific advancements of fermentation. On the other hand, it does yet again reinforce the point that in order to find a real asshole, you mostly have to look to people._

_You’ll never find dolphins glassing each other. They may be assholes, but they’re assholes without opposable thumbs._ [BACK]

 

 

_11\. It was true that Death’s knowledge was vast, but from a certain point of view, his actual experiences were rather limited. Since he had a keen interest in self-improvement, Death was always looking for new experiences; he tended to collect them, as a lepidopterist might collect butterflies. On one notable occasion, he even tried Life, on the theory that it was there, so why not. It ended pretty much the way you might expect._

_On the bright side, Terry Pratchett got a book deal out of it._ [BACK]

 

 


	4. Let's Talk About This

 

Time passed.

There was argument.

“I am detecting no foreign chemicals in the air that could cause either visual or auditory hallucinations, sir,” said Jarvis. “I am unable to determine whether you could have ingested any additives during your excursions outside of the facility.”

“It might have been that food truck,” said Tony Stark, snapping his fingers before pointing accusingly at Captain Rogers. “I knew it looked dodgy.”

“You’re the one who wanted to eat there,” Captain Rogers said.

“Tacos. _Korean_ _tacos_. Sombrero-wearing mouth orgasms in designer hanboks. Who would pass that up? It’d be un-American.” 12

“We didn’t all eat there. It couldn’t be the tacos.”

I AM NOT A TACO.

“And we’re all seeing the same thing, right?” Bruce Banner said, his stare still fixed and wary on Death. “Right? It’s not just me?”

AH. I SEE. YOU THINK I’M A FOOD-BASED HALLUCINATION.

“Skeleton in a black cloak holding a scythe and standing the middle of the floor? I’m seeing it too,” Captain Rogers said.

“Check,” said Clint Barton.

"Me too," said Romanov.

I CAN SEE MYSELF AS WELL. I ALSO SEE ALL OF YOU, IF THAT’S OF ANY INTEREST.13

“It could’ve been the curry we had last night,” Stark said. “Maybe the beef was bad.”

"Aw, no. That was good curry," Barton mourned.

I LIKE CURRY. YELLOW ONES.

“It was vegetarian,” Banner said. "Besides, if it was food poisoning, it would have manifested long before now."

"I don't think I can get food poisoning," Captain Rogers said, his brow furrowing.

"And even if it was food poisoning, it wouldn't result in a shared hallucination. There's no such thing. It's not food poisoning."

ALTHOUGH THE GREEN ONES ARE GOOD TOO. 

Stark frowned. “Did I accidentally run a post-hypnotic suggestion on the Tower's bathroom mirrors this morning? Because I haven't developed any recreational mind-games. I wouldn't do that because that would be _wrong_ , but just in case I did, you probably shouldn't drink any tomato juice for at least twenty-four hours.”

"Tony—" Captain Rogers began.

"Twenty-four hours. Forty-eight, tops. See, there's this weird reaction with the lycopene in the—"

I COULD KILL FOR A CURRY RIGHT NOW, Death said wistfully.

The room suddenly fell silent.

“Uh, Jarvis?”

“Ordering now, sir,” said Jarvis.

“Wait,” said Banner. “Did he just—“

IT WAS A FIGURE OF SPEECH, Death said apologetically. I’M TOLD PEOPLE FEEL MORE COMFORTABLE AROUND ME WHEN I’M LESS FORMAL.

“Yeah, not so much,” Stark said.

SORRY.

“But Jarvis heard him,” Banner said, intent. “How can Jarvis hear him if he’s just a hallucination?”

Stark stared at him.

“Jarvis?”

“Yes, Captain Rogers?”

“How many people are in this room right now?”

“There are twelve people. In order of arrival, Agent Romanov, the anthropomorphic personification of death, Agent Barton, yourself, sir, Banner, Mr. Parker from Security, Mr. Denison from Security—”

Stark waved a rude hand to cut him off. Captain Rogers, more polite, offered a, “Thank you, Jarvis. We get the idea.”

“You’re welcome, Captain.”

“The ‘anthropomorphic personification of death?’” Stark echoed. “Jarvis, how are you reading him? Any life signs?”

“No, sir. That would seem to be a contradiction in terms.”

“What the hell is this? Hologram? Cardboard cutout? Is this what Fury looks like when he takes off the flesh mask? You need to rethink your diet, Nick. I told you just feeding off kittens and the blood of virgins wasn’t going to give you enough calories.”

Captain Rogers lunged to stop Stark’s inquisitive hand. “Don’t touch him!”

“I was just—“

“Don’t poke Death for science, Tony,” Banner said. As an afterthought, he added, “At least, not without proper safety equipment.”

“I am reading him as the anthropomorphic personification of death, sir,” Jarvis said.

YOU MAY CALL ME DEATH.

“Of course, Mister Death.”

JUST DEATH.

“Holy Capital Gains Tax loophole, he actually shows up in the database as ‘Death, The Anthropomorphic Personification of,’” Stark said, stabbing at his phone. It seemed to annoy him. “I didn’t _program_ that.”

Barton, who still had an arrow drawn and aimed unerringly at Death’s head, failed previous shots notwithstanding, started to grin, showing all his teeth. “Only you, Stark,” he said. “Most billionaires keep their skeletons in the closet, not in the living room. Hey, Death. How’s it hanging?”

OFTEN BY THE NECK, BUT OCCASIONALLY BY OTHER APPENDAGES, Death said politely.

Barton laughed. “So what’re you in town for? Shriners convention? Another alien invasion? Children’s wing at the local hospital?”

“He’s here for me,” Romanov said.

Barton stopped laughing.

ALTHOUGH I COULD ALSO BE HERE FOR MR. STARK, Death said, attempting to ease the strange tension in the room. AGENT COULSON DID RECOMMEND HIM.

The property damage that followed was … awkward.

 

#

 

There wasn’t much left of the room when the Avengers were done. That is to say, there was still a floor and a ceiling and, improbably, some wall. Furniture, though, was mostly reduced to component particles, and so were all the tea making supplies that had lived in what was once the bar.

Death was starting to feel frazzled, in the way that only anthropomorphic personifications of multiverse-spanning concepts can be.14

“So he can’t be killed,” Stark said, flipping back his faceplate to stare at Death. “Okay, I should have predicted that. Who’d come to collect Death if he died? It’d be like a game of philosophical Twister. I’m really good at Twister, incidentally, but if you want to play chess I’m down for that, too. Genius,” he said, tapping himself on the chest with two fingers. “I can do that.”

Death was always being asked to play chess. He didn’t understand the mortal obsession with chess. It was true that he would occasionally allow someone to play a game with him and not be collected if they won—but why was it always chess? NO, THANK YOU. I DON’T REALLY CARE FOR CHESS.15 His blue star eyes brightened. PICTIONARY, THOUGH. I LIKE PICTIONARY.

“Why is he here?” asked Banner, whose lack of involvement in the earlier overreaction was most of the reason the aforementioned floor, ceiling, and some wall still remained. His forehead wrinkled. “I mean, why … here?”

“I think he already made that clear,” Captain Rogers said grimly, shield still raised.

“Or maybe I should have said, why is he _still_ here? Because if he was here to kill Tony and Agent Romanov—“

OH.

“Thanks for reminding him,” Stark said. "You're not my favorite anymore."

“—he could have done that and left already. But he’s still here.”

EXCUSE ME.

Stark perked up. “He is, isn’t he? And so am I. And so is Agent Stabbity Stabbity. I’m still here. We’re all still here, one big, happy family. One big, happy family with a really unwelcome stray that someone brought home with them. I should have a strict ‘no strays allowed’ policy on the tower. Except for mine. I’m the only one allowed to bring home strays. And Pepper. Because it’s my tower. And Pepper’s. Mostly mine.”

“We’re _all_ still here,” Captain Rogers said, stepping firmly on Stark’s spurt of verbal diarrhea. He frowned at Death. “And we’ll all stay here, if it’s all the same to you. We’re not letting you have Tony or Natasha without a fight.”

I WASN’T ACTUALLY—

“Because that’s working so well,” Barton muttered.

“But why is it working at all?” Banner asked, looking around him at the remains of the room. “Is there an issue of timing? Is he waiting for something to happen? Or is there something else that we’re missing?”

“Are you here to reap us?” Romanov asked Death with refreshing directness.

I THINK THERE’S BEEN A MISUNDERSTANDING. I REALLY DID COME FOR TEA, Death said apologetically. ALBERT SAID IT HELPS SOMETIMES TO TALK TO A WOMAN.

“You came to talk to Tony?” Barton asked, his eyebrows twitching together. “I mean, yeah, he’s kinda girly, but you know he’s a guy, right? —Ow, Tasha, fuck _,_ that _hurt_.”

“I’m not going to take offense at that or even make you start paying rent, because I have a girly person in my life and she’s taught me through operant conditioning to equate ‘girl’ with ‘terrifying.’”

“You came to talk to Agent Romanov?” Banner asked, ignoring Stark.

“ _Just_ talk? —Ow, Tasha, goddammit. I didn’t mean _that!”_

“You’d have to be the bravest anthropomorphic personification alive. Or, well, not alive, but— you know,” Stark said through the clink of glass as he attempted to salvage something out of the bar debris. “That doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue, does it? ‘Anthropomorphic personification.’ Can I just call you The Big D? D-man? How about I call you Daddy D?”

NO.

“How do you talk all in capital letters like that?” Stark demanded. “Did you take a class, or—“

“What did you want to talk to Agent Romanov and Tony about?” Captain Rogers demanded, still focused on Death. “Is it something that’ll hurt them?”

I DON’T THINK SO?

“Something Agent would’ve recommended me for,” Stark said with a flippancy that rang false. “So that narrows it down. Fashion, technology, weapons, women, handling the media, and self-destructive tendencies. I’m not giving any weapons or technology advice to Death, so you can reap me right now if that’s what you want. Unless you’re thinking about installing Windows. I have all kinds of thoughts about that.”

Barton’s face was stricken, though his bow stayed steady. “Coulson wouldn’t have recommended Tony for advice on women.”

“Or handling the media,” Romanov said, with a glance to Captain Rogers. “Stark Industries has an entire division dedicated to media management, and Tony still ended up being a walking PR disaster on a weekly basis.”

“That leaves fashion and self-destructive tendencies.”

“Giving Death advice about self-destruction seems like teaching your grandmother to suck eggs,” Captain Rogers observed, still tense.

“Fashion it is, then,” Stark said. In an unlikely miracle, he had somehow managed to find and fill an unbroken glass, which he lifted in a toast. “God knows you need it. I’ll cover the men’s fashion. You cover the accessorizing, Natasha. We’ll have him set in no time.”

Death looked down at his robes. Then at his scythe. WHAT’S WRONG WITH WHAT I’M WEARING?

“Is this really the time to start drinking, Tony?” Captain Rogers asked, his stare still fixed on Death.

Stark raised an eyebrow. “Death standing my living room, wanting a makeover? I think it’s the perfect time to start drinking.”

WHAT’S A MAKEOVER?

“You don’t want to know,” Barton said.

I ACTUALLY CAME FOR SOMETHING ELSE.

“Tell me,” Romanov said.

When it came right down to it, admitting that one was facing challenges in the romance department was curiously … off-putting. Death found himself squirming. It was a peculiar sensation. AGENT COULSON SUGGESTED, he began. Then he stopped, trying to find the appropriate words.

Stark waggled his eyebrows inquiringly. Barton prompted through his teeth, “Coulson said—?”

Really, it was ridiculous. Death wrestled with discomfort. HE SUGGESTED THAT MR. STARK COULD TEACH ME HOW TO, AH, DESTROY SOMEONE’S ROMANTIC INTEREST. AS IT WERE.

A brief, fraught silence fell.

Worried that perhaps his meaning was misunderstood, Death added, IN ME.

“Wait,” said Barton. “Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. What?”

“I’m sorry?” said Captain Rogers.

“You need Tony to teach you how to crush someone?” Barton asked, at the same time Stark demanded, “Agent thought I could teach Death how to be a dick?”

After a second, Barton started to laugh. Then, so did Banner. Captain Rogers and Romanov smiled.

Stark buried his face in a hand and his drink at the same time.

“Never thought I’d say this,” he mumbled into his glass, “but I actually miss that guy.”

Death sighed.

 

* * *

 

 

12.  _No it wouldn't._ [BACK]

 

 

13\. _There is a theory floating around the Multiverse that Death himself can only see beings that will eventually die_ _._ _Researchers have made several laudable attempts to test the concept of the Immortal Blindfold. Unfortunately, efforts have been challenged by the fact that Death usually only appears at the moment of death to the dying person. The most recent attempt was made at Fiske Dam University, which ran the famous Acherson experiment, fondly known as the "What did he say?" panel, until the Physics Department ran out of funding and graduate students._

 _The Dean is hopeful that with the latest resurrection techniques, they may eventually be able to submit partial findings to the Arp-87 Journal of Physics._  [BACK]

 

 

14. _i.e. Very, very carefully._ [BACK]

 

 

15. _Death could never remember how the knights were supposed to move. It flustered him. On the Avengers' planet, he had actually replaced the chess option with Solitaire, which was more soothing to his nerves since it was a single player game. Also, nobody ever won._  [BACK]

 

 

 


	5. The Incredible Failures of Intelligence

 

Twenty minutes later, nobody was laughing. Death often had that effect on a room.16

“Genocide,” Romanov said flatly.

“Yeah, I think when you destroy entire planets, it goes beyond genocide,” Stark said. “Planetcide? Is that a word?”

“Galacticide?” Barton said.

“We have to do something,” Captain Rogers said, his jaw thrust out.

“How close is he to earth?” Romanov asked, “Because unless the rest of you have interstellar travel powers SHIELD doesn’t know about, ‘doing something’ might not be an option.”

“Thor has to do something?” Barton suggested.

Stark clapped his hands, rubbing them together in a considering way before flinging them wide. “Okay. Break-up plan time. Jarvis, get a bot or something up here to start cleaning up. Security goons, go away now before you end up redshirts. Fat lot of good you were, you’re out of the back-up band when we take on Famine, War, and Pestilence.

"Send up some chairs or something for us to sit on, and some replacement booze. The good stuff. Lots of the good stuff. Just load them on the elevator, don’t send anybody breathing. No offense, Death, but I’d prefer you not get acquainted with anyone who works for me. Insurance is already a bitch.”

NO OFFENSE TAKEN.

"Yeah, except I think _I'm_ a little offended. Why'd you go to Romanov before you came to me? When it comes to ruining personal relationships and destroying good will, I'm the king."

"Yes he is," Captain Rogers said.

"See? Tighty-Whitey gets it."

YOU WERE NOT ON MY ORIGINAL LIST OF QUALIFIED INDIVIDUALS.

Stark scoffed. “Are you kidding me? Maybe if you wanted a successful romance you’d go somewhere else, but if you want to screw one up, I’m the most qualified person on the _planet_. There’s nobody in this arm of the galaxy who’s a bigger disaster than me. What?” Stark broke off to frown at the others. “What’s that look for?”

“Turned into a green rage monster and broke Harlem,” Banner said apologetically.

“Missed a date because I crashed into the ocean and was frozen for seventy years,” said Captain Rogers.

“Never told my crush I was in love, and then went and caused death of said crush while mind-controlled by an alien god,” said Barton. “And let’s not forget Thor, who romanced his girl and then went back to a different planet without even leaving her his phone number.”

The men looked at Romanov, who was inspecting one of her knives.

“Codename ‘Black Widow,’” she said without so much as looking up, and Stark admitted, “Yeah, okay, you’ve pretty much hit the jackpot here, Delicious Death. Oh, hey. I like that. After this, remind me to ask how you'd feel about popping out of a cake for Justin Hammer.”

Death decided to ignore that. ANY HELP YOU CAN OFFER WOULD BE GREATLY APPRECIATED, he said politely.

Stark said brightly, “So let’s talk first dates.”

 

#

 

Time passed.

“—because sometimes it works to show someone your penis, especially if he’s a homophobe. Is this Thanos guy? Even if he’s not though, it could still work. Only if it’s small, though. Or grotesquely big. I mean, physical injury-causing big. Hey, can I see your—“

NO.17 

“Just a peek. If you’re shy, I promise to cover my eyes. Romanov won’t look.19 I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?”

NO.

 

#

 

Time passed.

“Stop poking him, Tony.”

“C’mon, Capsicle. He doesn’t mind. See? You don’t mind, do you, big fella? What are you, seven-ten? Eight feet?”

I AM DEATH, DESTROYER OF WORLDS.

“Right. So how do you feel about patting, then? Petting? Heavy petting? Groping? Tongue? Do you have a tongue? Say 'ah.' No?"

"Tony—"

"It's been a while, huh? Need someone to practice on? Hey, Bruce—“

“Not even for science, Tony.”

 

#

 

Time passed.

“No, seriously, this could work. You have sex with him, and just be really bad in the sack. I mean, capital-B Bad. _Epic_ levels of bad. It's practically number one of the Five Signs You Should Dump Your Anthropomorphic Personification."

"I hate myself for even asking this," Banner said, rubbing his forehead, "but how would a skeleton even have  _good_ sex?"

"Exactly! It's right in his skill set!"

NO.

 

 

#

 

Time passed.

Stark eyed Romanov askance. “You laughed,” he marveled.

“She does that sometimes,” Barton said.

“It’s just I’ve never heard you laugh before.”

“You’re not that funny,” Romanov told him.

“And you think, _‘Don’t think of it as dying, just think of it as leaving early to avoid the rush,’_ is funny enough to—?”

Romanov laughed again. The others, with the exception of Barton, stared at her.

“It is kinda hilarious,” Barton said to the string notch of his bow. “It sounds like something Coulson would’ve said.”

Stark scowled at him. Then he scowled at Death. “You,” he said, pointing a finger at him. “You’re not allowed to tell any more stories.”

Death stared his blue-stars-in-black-holes stare at him.

“I mean it,” Stark said.

 

#

 

Time passed.

ONE TIME, IN BAND CAMP, Death began, then stopped. If he could have frowned, he would have. WAS IT SOMETHING I SAID?

 

#

 

“You said Coulson suggested Tony,” Barton said quietly to Death, while the others were arguing. Death peered down at the man. Barton’s head was bent over his bow, his hands busy on some minor mechanical business with the device that apparently required all of his attention.

YES.

“Agent Phil Coulson from SHIELD.”

YES.

Barton nodded, still not looking up. His fingers worried at his bowstring. “So, um. How is he?”

HE SEEMS FINE, Death said cautiously. WE HAD A NICE TALK ABOUT PAPERWORK.

This drew Barton’s head up in a jerk. “Paperwork,” he said. Some trace of tension eased from his frame. “So he’s not, you know. Suffering?”

Death considered. Agent Coulson had seemed quite cheerful, all things considered. They'd adjusted his drugs several times while he'd been there. I DO NOT BELIEVE SO.

Barton huffed out a breath, heavy enough to be audible. Romanov leaned into his shoulder, watching as Stark and Banner debated the value of a line of ‘Thanks But No Thanks’ Hallmark cards. “Good,” Barton said. “Good. That’s… that’s good.” His smile flickered in and out, barely there. “I didn’t know. I mean, he’s killed a few people. They all deserved it, but, you know. I don’t know that much about heaven or hell or anything, but … he was a good man.”

Judgments about moral or spiritual quality were not within Death’s comfort zone, but he was perfectly capable of making personal assessments. He’d liked Agent Coulson.

HE HAS A GOOD WORK ETHIC, he said. 

“Yeah,” Barton said, his chuckle sounding like something that belonged to a man twice his age. “He’s definitely that. Do you— I mean, if you can, could you tell him something from me next time you see him?”

CERTAINLY.

Again the flicker of smile. “Just tell him I’m back, would you? Myself, I mean. And I’m … I’m sorry? He’ll know what I mean.”

Death inclined his head.

“Thanks.”

YOU’RE WELCOME.

For several minutes, Death tried to pay attention to the conversation between the other Avengers. It was hard going. There were a great many cultural references being batted around. Captain Rogers wrote down the ones he didn’t know in a little notebook. It seemed like a good idea, so Death conjured one up as well. It was black, with black pages. He wrote down 'Hair Club for Men' and 'Steven King's Carrie.'

“Um,” Barton said, quietly again.

YES?

“I don’t suppose you know Agents Morova or Lee at all, have you? Roger Morova, Amanda Lee? They would’ve died a couple of months ago, on the helicarrier.”

YES. I COLLECTED THEM.

Barton twitched. “It was quick,” he said as though reassuring himself. “The docs said it was quick.”

YES.

“Were they pissed?”

Death considered. EMOTIONS DO NOT CONTINUE PAST DEATH, BUT I BELIEVE THAT WORD IS NOT ENTIRELY INACCURATE.

The sound Barton made could not in any way be mistaken for a laugh. “When you see them again, could you—“

I WILL NOT BE SEEING THEM AGAIN.

“Oh.”

I AM ONLY RESPONSIBLE FOR DEATH ITSELF, Death explained, because public education seemed to be his calling these days. WHAT HAPPENS AFTER DEATH IS OUT OF MY AREA.

“Oh,” Barton said. “Okay. Sorry. I just thought I’d ask.”

YOU’RE HARDLY THE FIRST, Death said.

Barton nodded, his thumb sliding idly up and down the bowstring. Death turned his attention back to the conversation. He wrote down, 'Snuggie.'

“That is a terrible idea,” Captain Rogers said, flushed with outrage. “You can’t possibly be serious.“

“I totally could,” Stark said. “How does this not make sense?”

“Asking him to only kill people who listen to Yanni? I don’t even know who that is!”

“You don’t need to know who that is! It’s a win-win situation! Crazy killer man gets bodies, we make the galaxy safe for music lovers, what’s not to love?“

“Wait,” snapped Barton, sitting up suddenly. The others stopped mid-argument to stare at him. He’d drawn himself up, shoulders braced and solid, and glared at Death. “ _When_ did you talk to Coulson?”

THIS AFTERNOON.

“You just said you don’t see someone after he dies.”

THAT IS CORRECT.

“Then how did you just talk to him this afternoon?”

Death said, patiently, WITH MY MOUTH.

Silence fell. He looked around at the staring Avengers.

ARE YOU WONDERING HOW I TALK WITHOUT LIPS AND A TONGUE? THAT’S NICE. NOBODY EVER TAKES AN INTEREST.

 

* * *

 

 

16\. _Occasionally, Death found that disappointing and a little hurtful. Albert had assured him he that he had a great sense of humor. Unfortunately, frequent experimentation had determined that almost nobody else thought so._

 _Death possessed near perfect comedic timing, but sadly, his delivery had a way of just killing a joke._ [BACK]

 

 

17\. _Death would have obliged, but for some reason he didn’t have an incarnation with a penis. Breasts, yes. Penis, no. There’s probably some deep lesson in that. Something profound. You should think about it._

 _Although if the best you can come up with is ‘death is a dick so having one would be redundant,' you’re doing it wrong. Because that's not profound 18._ [BACK]

 

 

18.  _Not only is that statement literally incorrect, it's also subjectively false. Death is actually quite a nice person, all that death-bringing notwithstanding. He hasn’t collected a single named character in this story yet, so there you go._

_Coincidentally, ‘quite a nice person, all that death-bringing notwithstanding’ is exactly how Queen Elizabeth II described most of the Avengers during the first New Years Honours after the Chitauri. You can’t get much more definitive than that._

_(She used different words to describe Tony Stark.)_ [BACK]

 

 

19\. _Romanov absolutely would have looked. Incidentally, there wasn’t a single penis in the last seven scenes that Romanov hadn’t already seen. Quite a few of the penis owners would have been surprised and upset to know that. Death might not judge, but the Black Widow absolutely did._ [BACK]

 

 

 

 


	6. Reunions

 

“Let that be a lesson to all good little boys and girls,” Stark said a noisy half-hour later. “Never trust a spy with one eye20.”

Barton was seated splay-legged on a stair, his head hanging low between his knees. Every so often he’d try to straighten, only to have Romanov shove him down again. To be fair, what little could be seen of his face was either white or green.

“Fury lied to us,” Captain Rogers said, more disappointed than angry.

"Again," Banner said.

Stark tossed back his drink. “Everyone in this room who’s surprised, raise your hand. No? Nobody?”

“I was scratching my head,” Banner said meekly, when Stark stopped to stare accusingly at him. “It itched.”

“Go puke,” Romanov ordered Barton, slapping the back of his head.

“Yeah, no,” Barton mumbled. “I got this.”

Romanov slapped him again.

“Could you lead us to Agent Coulson?” Captain Rogers asked Death, earnest in his hope. “We’d like to see him for ourselves, if you don’t mind.”

One could call this sort of thing _interfering_ , if one were inclined to be pedantic. I DON’T THINK I SHOULD, Death tried to say. Nobody was listening to him.

From a certain point of view, this was a novel experience. People couldn’t hear Death all the time. Not listening, though. That was unusual enough to be interesting.

“What’s with him?” Stark demanded, splashing another drink and nodding at Barton.

Barton said, “Nothing.”

“He’s going to puke,” Romanov informed.

“I’m not gonna puke.”

“If you throw up on my shoes, I will make you eat them.” 

“Bathroom’s best for that,” Stark said, and Barton slunk off like a beaten dog. “I installed special huggable toilets. Hey, don’t give me that look. It was a market that was crying out for better design. Every complaint is a business opportunity. This is why I’m the billionaire and you’re all freeloading freeloaders. Hey, Big D. How far are we going? You need to give us directions, so none of this ‘walking through walls business,’ or however it is that you get around.”

WHY?

“Because we can’t walk through walls without knocking them down first? And my PR team would laugh if they heard me say this but I’d like to keep property damage at a minimum?”

“It would help us concentrate on your problem if we could see Phil alive with our own eyes,” Romanov said, answering what Death had really been asking. “Right now, we’re too distracted to focus.”

I CAN COME BACK LATER.

“We’ll stay distracted until we get eyes on him.”

“Right,” Stark said, waving his decanter. “His _living_ , breathing himness, before you get any ideas.”

“We’d really appreciate it, sir,” Captain Rogers said firmly.

Death sighed.

“So that’s settled then,” Stark said. “Who’s sitting next to Death in the helicopter?”

“I should probably stay behind,” Banner said. “I don’t actually know Agent Coulson, and this seems like it could be an emotionally volatile situation.”

“Okay. So that leaves Captain Popsicle and the Russian Tea Party. Flip for it?”

I HAVE MY OWN TRAVEL ARRANGEMENTS.

“Jesus, Stark,” Barton said, backpedaling out of the bathroom with his bow drawn again. His face was still pale. “I've heard about needing to see a man about a horse, but that’s fucking ridiculous.”

A white horse stepped daintily out the door after Barton, following him with the gently inquiring air of a superior being encountering inferior intellects but determined to be nice about it.

The Avengers turned to stare. Stark’s forehead creased. “Okay, which one of you put a horse in my bathroom?”

THAT WOULD BE ME.

Silence fell.

“‘And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death,’” murmured Banner at last.

HIS NAME IS BINKY, Death said helpfully.

“Can’t imagine why they left that out of the original text,” said Stark. “Golly. If you can’t trust the Bible to be an accurate, unbiased factual record, what can you trust?”21

Binky stretched his neck to nibble thoughtfully on Barton’s weapon.22

Barton sagged. “I feel like I’m turning into a case study for something bad.”

Romanov patted his shoulder.

 

#

 

Phil swam slowly out of the dark.

Someone was holding his hand. Both hands. One small, one large. There were calluses on the larger hand’s finger gently running across his knuckles. In the distant background, he could hear the percussive, arrhythmic beats of shouting.

He probably should have been worried about that. He wasn’t, really.

“Sitrep?” he breathed.

The grip on his right hand tightened.

“You’re alive, sir.” Clint. He sounded terrible.

Phil tried opening his eyes, but decided as the shouting voices grew more distinct that he really didn’t feel like it. “Are you sure?” he asked instead, unable to hear himself.

“You look like crap, but you’re definitely alive, somehow,” Clint said. His voice was thick and wet. Maybe he was bleeding out or had a throat obstruction.

Well, that wouldn’t do. Phil would have to open his eyes now.

He sighed and did.

The room was very, very loud. Natasha was the owner of the smaller hand, surprisingly. The other was Clint. Phil inspected him. Beside his general air of emotional wreckage and the unhealthy pull of flesh across his bones, he seemed in decent condition. The room, he discovered with a slow drift of curiosity, was a vaguely familiar hospital room, full of angry Nicks and cold Natashas and sarcastic Starks and

“Is that Captain America?” His heart monitor beeped in sleepy excitement. “What’s he doing here?”

“He came to make sure you were really alive, Phil.” Natasha looked down at their hands. “We all thought you were dead.”

“Oh. That’s nice of him.” Phil thought about that. His memories and emotions were pleasantly fuzzy, kept at a distance by drugs. Otherwise, he’d probably be embarrassed. “Clint, there’s a skeleton in the corner.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s reading P.G. Wodehouse.”

“Yeah.”

“Friend of yours?”

Clint’s grip convulsed. “Friend of yours,” he corrected. “He said you sent him to talk to Stark.”

Phil blinked. “Really?”

“I’m going to assume that was your way of letting us know you were alive,” Natasha said a little coldly.

So he wasn’t forgiven for dying then. That was fair. “I vaguely remember this,” Phil decided, and squinted at the skeleton. It turned a page. “I thought he was my Aunt Ida.”

Clint started to speak, cleared his throat, and then said, “Your Aunt Ida looks a lot like an eight-foot tall skeleton in a black hood with blue stars for eyes?”

“Her wardrobe’s a little more WASP-y. Cardigans and pearls, that sort of thing.”

The skeleton marked its place with a finger and looked up. CARDIGANS TEND TO SNAG.

“I suppose they would,” Phil murmured, while around them the argument crescendoed to new heights. Or lows. “Was Stark able to help you find a solution to your situation?”

HE HAD … IDEAS.

“Not good ones?”

THEY ALL SEEMED TO INVOLVE GENITALS.

“I suppose he'd have to know what he did wrong in his relationships to have advice on what to do to end them.” He should've sent the skeleton to Pepper instead. Tsk. Phil regarded empty air contemplatively for a sleepy minute or two, idly listening to Stark belittling the size of Nick’s intellectual property rights. Vague curiosity made him wonder, “Why did you come ask me for help? Aren’t there more qualified people around? Jerry Springer, Dan Savage, that sort of thing?”

MY UNDERSTANDING WAS THAT YOU HAD A SUCCESSFUL ROMANTIC HISTORY. I WAS UNAWARE AT THE TIME THAT YOU WERE HARBORING UNREQUITED FEELINGS FOR MR. BARTON. The skeleton somehow managed to look disappointed in him. It really was amazing how much it looked like Aunt Ida. YOU DIDN’T MENTION THAT WHEN YOU DIED THE LAST TIME.

Abrupt, ringing silence had fallen. Everybody in the room was staring at him. Idly, Phil thought he’d probably be really upset about all this when the drugs wore off. Also, Clint was clutching so hard, he was probably breaking Phil’s fingers right now. Dr Sarjinder would probably be annoyed by that.

That was a lot of probablys.

“What?” Clint said, finally.

Natasha sighed.

“You stupid motherfuckers.” Nick snapped. “You brought Death to Phil’s room, after all the trouble I went to get him back? The actual incarnation of _Death_?”

"He's talking to you," Stark told Captain America.

“Death brought us,” Captain America said steadily, disregarding this. “Apparently, he and Agent Coulson are friends of long standing.”

“Yeah, he would be. Because Coulson  _died._ Like I _told_ you assholes.”

WAS THAT IN QUESTION? YOU COULD HAVE JUST ASKED. I COLLECTED AGENT COULSON SEVERAL MONTHS AGO.

“Wait,” Clint said. His face was crumpling. “Can we go back to the part where you have unrequited feelings for me? Sir?”

“Um,” said Phil.

“And then what, you put him back?” Stark asked Death. “We’ll get back to the secret boner Agent Agent’s been holding onto for Katniss in just a second.”

NO. I AM ONLY RESPONSIBLE FOR DEATH. NOT LIFE.

Stark fidgeted. “I’ve got all kinds of questions about what qualifies as death to you. I mean, is it brain dead? Is it loss of higher function? Is there a countdown, you have to have stopped breathing for five minutes or doesn’t count, is sentience involved, do you collect animals and plants as well—“

Burning blue eyes turned on him. Stark recoiled. Even through the fog, Phil felt his lungs seize, filled with ice. Clint’s grip turned almost bone-crushing as he threw himself over Phil.

I AM EVERYWHERE. I AM EVERYWHEN. I WAS THERE WHEN REALITY WAS BORN, AND I WILL BE THERE WHEN EVERYTHING ENDS. ALL THINGS FALL BEFORE ME:LIFE, LOVE, JOY, SORROW, THE WORKS OF THE GREAT, AND THE DREAMS OF THE SMALL. I AM THE SHADOW THAT CORRUPTS ALL BEGINNINGS AND THE NOTHINGNESS THAT SWALLOWS AT THE END.SEE ME AND DESPAIR.

A terrible silence fell. The humans had all paled, even Nick. Death towered over them, horrifying in his power.

And then his eyes flickered and he said,

UNLESS YOU’RE A RAT.

More silence.

Then, a strained voice: “I’m sorry, what?” Captain America.

RATS. I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR RATS. THEY HAVE THEIR OWN ARRANGEMENTS.

Natasha said, “There’s a separate Death for Rats?”

YES.

“Why?”

Death hesitated. IT’S A LONG STORY, he said at last.

Much of the tension had seeped out of the room with the digression, though an edge of combat readiness still kept hands near holsters and in Captain America’s case, shield raised. At least nobody showed any inclination for picking up the earlier argument up again.

Into the thoughtful silence, Captain America said formally, “Well, however it happened, I just want to take this opportunity to welcome you back, Agent Coulson.” He was radiating determination and sincerity at Phil. “And to tell you that we appreciated your sacrifice. I hope we made you proud.”

There was a dismaying similarity to the incredulity Nick, Natasha, and Stark turned on Captain America. Phil was probably blushing, although his blush reflex was something he’d left behind with his virginity. His hand jerked, wanting to salute, but was halted by Clint’s grip on it. “Don’t mention it, Captain,” he said awkwardly. “I’m sure you all did.”

ARE YOU ALL STILL DISTRACTED? Death asked, oddly plaintive. ONLY, THANOS IS DESTROYING YAN’TU. THERE’S A CURRY SHOP THERE THAT I LIKE.

“Thanos? I thought he was an ex-boyfriend who was stalking you,” Phil said, confused.

HE'S NOT A BOYFRIEND.

“He's a crazy, super-powerful, galacticidal alien warlord wannabe boyfriend, who wants to wipe out all life,” Clint said.

“All life where?”

“Everywhere.”

OH, NEVER MIND. HE’S DISINTEGRATED IT. Death sighed.

“The shop?” Natasha asked.

THE PLANET.

“Any casualties?”

NINE BILLION, FOUR-HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SIX MILLION, SEVEN-HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-EIGHT THOUSAND, THREE-HUNDRED AND ELEVEN. TWELVE. FOURTEEN. TWENTY. TWENTY-NINE—

“Why’s that number going up?”

THE REMAINS OF THE YAN’TU FLEET. NINE BILLION, FOUR-HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SIX MILLION, SEVEN-HUNDRED AND—

“We get the idea,” Stark said, wincing. “Stalin wasn’t kidding about the whole tragedy versus statistics thing.”

“Did you tell me about the ‘wiping out all life’ part, earlier? Because that seems kind of important.” Phil asked Death.

MAYBE? I DON’T RECALL.

Phil sighed regretfully. He probably needed to be firing on all cylinders for this. “Okay,” he said. “Clint, can you turn down the morphine? I think we need to start over.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

20\. _Fact: spies with one eye are .07% more untrustworthy when dealing with good little boys and girls than spies with two eyes are. However, because Stark sacrificed accuracy for precision, this is not statistically significant. It would have been more statistically significant to say, ‘Let that be a lesson to everybody, regardless of moral standing, size, age, or gender identification: never trust a spy no matter how many eyes said spy has.’ Because then you get to 98.9%._

 _This is the sort of thing that Death thinks about in his idle moments, as part of his ongoing self-improvement project. He’s working his way through the alphabet of human experiences. Currently he’s stalled at B: Boredom. He just doesn’t get the point._ [BACK]

 

 

21.  _This. That is to say, you can trust this work. That you are currently reading. Because it is an accurate, unbiased, utterly factual record._

 _Really._ [BACK]

 

 

 _22\. Not a euphemism. Although you can pretend it was, if the imagery makes you really happy._ [BACK]

 

 

 


	7. The Plan

 

 

Time passed.

Phil made a plan.

It was a bit of a shit plan. Everybody except for Banner and Stark liked it, which Phil reasoned was because Banner and Stark weren’t experienced in intelligence gathering and covert operations.

He wasn’t sure how to feel about the fact that Death liked it.23

 

#

 

“You’re in pain,” Natasha murmured to Phil.

Phil smiled tightly at her, sweat prickling his brow. “I’ve had worse.”

“You were impaled with a spear through the chest a couple of months ago.”

“I’ve also had better,” Phil admitted.

HE SAID HE WANTED TO LIE WITH ME AND WORSHIP ME BODY AND SOUL, Death was telling the rest of the Avengers.

“Lie with Death? Isn’t that the definition of being buried six feet deep?” Clint asked from the other side of the room, where he was currently avoiding even making eye contact with Phil.

“Maybe he wants to be buried with a boner,” Stark said.

“At some point you’re going to have to talk to him, you know,” Natasha said quietly, while Steve looked disappointed in Clint and Stark. “You can’t run away from this.”

“Not in my current condition, no. I was thinking of asking Stark to put repulsors on the bed,” Phil said. The drugs had receded enough that he could privately admit to a smidgeon of crushing horror at the thought of talking to Clint.

“It’s a _great_ plan. Trust us. We’re all highly skilled people in this room,” Clint told Stark. “Everyone who can do something really well, raise your hand.”

Death and Clint raised their hands. Everybody else ignored them.

“You did a good job hiding it for so long,” Natasha said.

“Thank you. I’m a spy. I lie for a living,” Phil said.

“I don’t recommend lying to Clint. Give honesty a shot. Have a little faith in him. You two deserve to be happy.” There was something off about her tone of voice. Something irritated. He peered at her.

“You didn’t know I was in love with Clint,” he realized. “I snuck that one right by you, didn’t I?”

Her eyes had gone flat. Did he say that out loud? He said that out loud. Strike Team Delta had a standing internal rule that things they said while under the influence of drugs weren’t to be held against them. He glanced at his IV drip. Not on.

Crumbs.

“Seriously, could you _be_ any more unhelpful?” Stark demanded, throwing up his arms.

YES.

“I shouldn’t have said that out loud,” Phil said apologetically. “That one’s on me.”

“I’ve seen your dick, Phil,” Natasha said.

His eyes widened in alarm. “Which one?”24

 

 

#

 

Asgardians were not Death’s favorite people. They were argumentative, for one, and never wanted to just come quietly when their time was up: they always wanted to challenge him to some contest, make fun of his clothes, and tell him all about their great and glorious deeds. On top of which, they almost all seemed to see the version with breasts.

And they were grabby. It was trying.

“Should you really be trying to hug Death, Thor?” Captain Rogers asked.

“My friends! Heimdall has told me of your great need! I am pleased to aid you in another quest!” Thor exclaimed, and bounded over to embrace the others instead.

Thor had come with boxes of things, which Romanov and Stark were excited about. This was relevant to the ‘recon’ that Agent Coulson was determined to do.

“This garb is from a long-extinct species of Death worshippers in the distant stars, the Soyari,” Thor declared, unpacking several yards of fabric and jewels.

OH. THEM.

“Did Thanos kill them?” Stark asked.

“You are amusing, Man of Iron! No, they died of attrition. They worshipped Death, and so would not procreate, feeling that Life was the antithesis of Death. They were a long-lived kind, even compared to my people, so it was many millennia before the last of them died. He was ancient beyond counting, and powerful. His fall caused ripples across a million star systems.”

IT WAS A REALLY TALL LADDER. HE PROBABLY SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN CHANGING LIGHTBULBS AT HIS AGE.

“In shape and form, they were much like humans, and so my Lady Mother thought it the best disguise. Their beauty was renowned across a billion planets.”

“Alien Shakers25,” Stark said. “Guess there really _is_ nothing new under the sun. Mind explaining to me, Point Break, exactly _why_ will Thanos fall for this?”

“Thanos will recognize the garb,” Thor explained. “He will not find it strange that one of their people should serve Death.”

“Even though they’re all dead?”

“Especially because they are all dead! Well done, friend Stark!”

Thor smote Stark heavily on the back, beaming in congratulations as Stark flew across the room to be caught by Rogers.

“Everyone who thinks that made any sense at all, raise your hand,” Barton said. 

Death raised his hand. Everybody ignored him. 

“This is missing some fabric,” Romanov observed, holding the robe up to herself and looking down at the holes cut into the front.

“It was traditional for the Soyari to display their mammaries, to strike terror in the hearts of their enemies!” Thor said exultantly.

“Terror-striking tits,” Barton muttered. “This job just keeps getting weirder and weirder.”

“They wore the symbols of their worship on their breasts, and adornments to proclaim their prowess in battle,” Thor explained. “I have brought enough for a Soyari Timeslayer, one who has defeated a Lord of Order in single combat. Even Thanos has not approached such strength in battle.”

“I’ve worn worse,” Romanov sighed. “We might need to get this hemmed. It’s a little long for me.”

“You?” Thor looked surprised. “But you could not pass as a Soyari, Lady Widow.”

“I get the intel, Coulson makes the plan, Hawkeye breaks the plan, we all go home. That’s the way we roll,” Romanov said.

“Thanos would not be deceived by such tricks,” Thor said sternly. “No, there is only one among you who could pretend to be Soyari and make a Titan like Thanos believe it to be truth.”

All the humans turned to Rogers, who turned red and crossed his arms a little defensively.

“Fine, fine, I’ll do it, twist my arm why don’t you,” Stark said. “Galaxy-renowned beauty, I get that all the time. It won’t be my first time in a dress and a tiara.”

But Thor was already fitting the crown on Coulson’s head, tilting his head speculatively. “I see my Lady Mother was correct. This does indeed bring out the color of your eyes, Son of Coul!”

He beamed. The Avengers stared.

“I—“ said Barton. “Wait. What?”

“I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. What’s happening right now? I’m so confused,” said Stark.

Coulson looked down at the robe Thor was laying out on him in the hospital bed.

“Quick, someone say something encouraging,” Romanov said, her eyes big.

IT WILL LOOK VERY NICE ON YOU. With the vague idea of being supportive, Death tried making a fist and sticking a finger up at random to wave at Coulson, like humans often did. Noticing Coulson looked skeptical, he added encouragingly, YOU CAN RIDE BINKY.

“I can assist you with your adornments!” Thor said. “The scar on your chest is well-placed. It will strike fear in the hearts of those who behold you. Is your pelt a warrior’s mark on this planet, Son of Coul? I would not stain your honor by removing it without the proper ceremonies.”

“Are you asking if you can _wax_ Agent Agent’s chest?”

“Aw, chest hair, no,” said Barton.

“I do not know ‘wax,’ but we must remove the hair on his chest, aye. Soyari males have no hair save that above the neck. Do your males have hair elsewhere? I do not recall.”

“I forgive you now, Phil. This might be my favorite day ever,” Romanov said happily.

“Well. This is not how I thought this would go,” said Coulson.

 

* * *

 

 

 

23. _Despite Stark’s loudly expressed opinion, Death didn’t like it because it had the maximum likelihood of fatalities. Death liked it because it only had three parts, so it was easy to remember._

 _At heart, Death was a simple anthropomorphic personification. He liked the color black, doing his job well, and cats. In a lot of ways he was like the nice but poorly socialized comic book store guy living next door, except with reality-destroying power and a horse named Binky._ [BACK]

 

24. _Some readers are probably wondering right now why Phil owns more than one dick. That's a really good question._ [BACK]

 

25.  _[Shakers](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shakers) on the Avengers' world were an interesting group. Death rather liked them since they were generally polite, rarely caused him any trouble, and had quixotically pacific views about life in general. The Soyari, on the other hand, wiped out entire galaxies and caused more than one Apocalypse on their way to extinction. They were a lot of work. _

_On the other hand, none of the Soyari had ever wanted to date Death, so on the whole, he preferred them to Thanos._ [BACK]

 

 


	8. Going Knowhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting my second installment for the week early, since I'll be out of commission for the rest of it.

 

It took time, but eventually the Avengers who were going (and Coulson) were properly prepared for the trip26. Rogers, Barton, and Romanov attired themselves as Soyari slaves, with the assistance of Thor’s costume chest. Rogers was deeply unhappy about the cloth to jewelry ratio as worn by Soyari slaves. Some of the jewelry was intended to serve as a universal telepathic translation system, apparently, but most of the rest had to do with enhancing and emphasizing certain physical attributes. 

"Erskine really wasn't kidding around, was he," Stark said, circling Rogers like a hopeful shark. "I bet it must be hard to walk. Is this why you always look so constipated?"

Rogers was unhappy about that, too.

Thor would be left behind for political reasons. Romanov let Stark have one of the translators in exchange for staying behind as well.

“Because we don’t want to _invite_ Thanos to come straight to earth and kill us all,” Romanov explained to Death. “Tony has poor judgment.”

“This is truth!” Stark said, fiddling with his phone.

“Also, Pepper says she will kill him dead if he even thinks of leaving the planet again.”

“Hold still,” Stark said gleefully. “I promised to send a picture of this to her. Push your boobs together, Captain Ab Fab. C’mon. Close your eyes and think of America.”

“I’m _really_ not comfortable with this,” Rogers said, taking refuge behind his shield.

“Send me a copy,” Romanov said.

“Me too!” Barton said.

“I would go into battle with you, but my father has forbidden it,” Thor said regretfully. “Asgard is not yet ready to fight Thanos, and he would know my origins with but a glance.”

“What about us?” Barton asked. “Even without Stark, won’t he come blow up Earth if he recognizes us as human?”

NO.

“He will not know your planet of origin unless you tell him, friend Hawkeye!”

“He could just run some kind of scanner doohickey, right?”

“Your kind has already traveled far on the branches of Yggdrasil!” Thor said.

“I have no idea what that means.”

HUMANS INFEST THE MULTIVERSE, Death explained.

“‘Infest?’ Really?” said Stark. “That’s the word you’re going to go with?”

“Indeed!" Thor boomed, while Death stared at Stark and considered vocabulary. "There is no reason for Thanos to know from which of the many human-occupied planets you originate.”

YOU ARE RESOURCEFUL, VERSATILE, AND WIDE-SPREAD. LIKE RATS. ALSO COCKROACHES AND VIRUSES. 

“Well,” said Stark. “I’m feeling good about myself. How’re the rest of you guys doing?”

RATS AND COCKROACHES ARE GOOD COMPANY27, Death said encouragingly. 

“Hold up. If he can tell humans, how will Coulson trick him into thinking he’s this Soylent thing?” Barton asked.

“Soyari, my friend!” boomed Thor. “And he will pass because he is wearing Soyari clothing and adornments.”

“So why can’t one of us slap on some makeup and a disguise? Skullcap, a little coverup, we do it all the time. Coulson’s barely even vertical.”

“You could not wear the Soyari garments, friend Hawkeye! They would slay you!”

“What _.”_

“Their magic recognizes the Soyari code within the Son of Coul, and so does not boil his blood within his veins.”

“Code?” Stark asked, perking up. “You mean DNA?”

“I do not know this word, but aye, it is in his blood now. I congratulate you! It is a rare honor, to be adopted by the Soyari.”

Coulson stared at Thor. “I beg your pardon?”

“Did you not know? It is clear for any who have eyes to see that your substance has changed since I encountered you last. It is a great privilege! The Norns must have been impressed by your bravery!”

YOU LOOK UPSET, Death observed.

“What the hell!” Barton said. “You put Coulson in something that could kill him?!"

"There was only a small chance that it would," Thor reassured.

" _How small_?"

Thor held his forefinger and thumb up, slightly apart. "Perhaps this much!"

"What is that? Twelve percent, maybe?" Romanov asked, and Thor shrugged. 

Barton threw up his arms. 

“I want to know about this alien DNA business. Something you want to tell us, Agent?” Stark asked. “Bought a cheap condom out of a truck stop vending machine?”

“Prioritize,” Coulson said, looking torn but resolute. “Mission now, figure out this Soyari business later.”

“Yeah. Okay. Except, hold still, this is killing me; I really just want to—“ Stark began, and reached with both hands as though to pinch the jewels affixed to Coulson’s nipples.

Probably something terrible would have happened to him if he’d followed through with it, but the case never arose. Dr. Sarjinder chose that moment to enter and find Coulson pale, listing at a 60-degree angle, and surrounded by Avengers and anthropomorphic personifications.

He stopped dead in the doorway, briefly stunned at all the highly-sculpted flesh (and Coulson) on display. The highly-sculpted flesh (and Coulson) froze and stared back at him.

“So, this looks bad,” Barton said weakly. Romanov said something Russian and resigned.

Sarjinder was a professional. 

“Oh my golly gosh, you people are morons,” Sarjinder said, taking the situation in in one comprehensive glance. “I did not drag Agent Coulson out of a body bag just so you could dress him up like a Starlight Express Christmas Tree and take him joyriding on Death’s caboose. Get out.”

“Actually,” Coulson began.

“No," Sarjinder snapped, jabbing an accusing finger at him. "You do not get to speak, Agent Boobalicious. You display _stunningly_ poor judgment.”

“’Agent Boobalicious,’” Stark repeated, awed, his eyes shining.

"All of you get out," Sarjinder ordered. 

BINKY IS NOT A CABOOSE.

Sarjinder frowned at Death. “Death?”

YES?

Sarjinder nodded, as though confirming a suspicion. “You also do not get to speak. I do not like you.”

“‘Agent Boobalicious,’” Stark said again, face alight with stunned glee. “Hi, Doc. Tony Stark. Let me give you a card. That’s my personal number. Have you ever thought of the private sector? I can pay you so much more than SHIELD can. _So_ much more.”

"Sarj," Barton said pleadingly. 

"Sir, I can explain," Rogers tried.

"You are hanging out with Death in a SHIELD medical facility," Sarjinder said flatly. "I am disappointed in you. All of you. You are profoundly stupid people. Why have you bedazzled my patient?"

Unfortunately, it seemed that Sarjinder was correct in that Coulson’s recently impalement had made him unable to travel via horseback across the multiverse. He was barely able to move his arms without assistance. Also, he kept falling down. And he was turning white. Argument about this continued until Death helpfully pulled Coulson’s soul out of his body. Coulson straightened up, his facial color improving. He looked much healthier and happier dead28. 

Strangely, this upset all the humans but Sarjinder, who seemed to feel a deep satisfaction in watching inevitability unfold. He summoned nurses to put Coulson’s body back in bed, reconnected his leads, and took Stark’s business card.

Which made a newly arrived Maria Hill upset.

“Don’t take it personally,” Sarjinder told Death, while everybody else shouted and Coulson’s soul experimented with waving his hand through things. “My ethics professor once told me that if someone isn’t upset, you’re probably not doing your job right. He was talking about hospital administrators and lawyers, but the principle is broadly the same.”

It was good advice. Death wrote that down. People being upset at him was commonplace, but it was nice to know it was really performance validation.

 

#

 

Binky, who had been eating the salad bar in the canteen and terrorizing the resident SHIELD agents, wandered up to meet them on the roof. Four additional passengers required some redistribution of metaphysical essence; in the end, he turned into a black Mustang convertible with red trimming and butter-soft leather seats, for reasons known only to himself.

Phil’s eyes might have glazed over a little.

“If I wasn’t so cool, I’d be rolling around on the leather,” he said.

“For the last time, you’re not cool, Phil,” Natasha said. Clint muttered.

“Remind me to introduce you to Lola,” Phil whispered to the car when nobody was looking. He stroked the leather. “You two would have beautiful, beautiful babies.”

The car purred.

Their first destination, on Thor’s recommendation, was a place called Knowhere.

“A more wretched hive of scum and villainy does not exist in the known universe29,” Thor said. “But it is one of the great, unmonitored crossroads. Information may be found there, for those seeking it. But be wary that you do not incur a debt you cannot pay!”

All things considered, Knowhere was … a lot more impressive than Phil had expected. Even taking into account Binky had brought them to a galaxy far, far away.

“Huh. Big skull,” Barton said.

IT WAS ONCE A CELESTIAL, Death explained.

“Reduce, reuse, recycle,” Phil said approvingly.

Natasha, Thor, and Clint had made adjustments to the costumes to remove any Earth-identifying or -idiosyncratic markers. Their arrival caused some excitement. Death didn’t usually arrive places visible to everyone, but Phil’s delight at his convertible shape had gone to Binky’s head, apparently. Dozens of ships were hastily careening away from Knowhere by the time they docked.

Well, it made parking very easy. Not that Phil expected Death ever had a problem finding parking.

“We need to separate,” Natasha told Death when they got out of the car. “You’re too conspicuous, and nobody will talk to the rest of us if we’re hanging out with Death.”

I’VE USUALLY FOUND THAT THE OPPOSITE IS TRUE.

“We’re trying to be subtle,” Phil explained. “That’s why I’m currently hairless, bedazzled, wearing a tiara, and the Council of Elrond’s answer to spandex overalls.” The costume was a lot more attention-grabbing and nipple-baring that Phil usually preferred in his wardrobe.

“Not to mention being a little bit dead,” Natasha said.

“And that.”

I CAN BE SUBTLE.

They looked at Death. Phil had the impression that his feelings were a little hurt. “Alright,” he said soothingly. “Let’s just accept that you think that’s true and move on from there.”

After some more discussion, Natasha split off with a morose Steve to the lower levels, leaving Clint and Phil went to go to the upper galleries. Death was persuaded to go invisible to the denizens. He wandered off because apparently as long as he was here, he might as well take care of business.

There was a lot of stuff to look at. Although, Phil was disappointed to note, it was a lot like walking through the Strip in Vegas: neon lights, party-goers, criminals, tourists, and strip-club advertisements. Apparently some things were universal. Phil had thought (a little pessimistically, he was able to admit now) the Soyari outfit would end up in him getting beat up in the Knowhere locker rooms. It seemed to exude a smug self-satisfaction in itself and its pectoral situation that just begged for retaliation. However, the denizens gave him a wide berth on seeing it. Even after almost twelve thousand years, the Soyari apparently had quite the reputation.

Clint was silent, and while Phil was used to a comfortable silence with him, the one they had going here had all the charm of a mid-winter night over the Korean DMZ. Obviously, Phil would need to clear the air before they continued with this op. Even undead, the thought of having this conversation with Clint was making his stomach churn with anxiety.

“According to Thor’s map, there was a pub of some sort just around this corner,” Phil said at last. “Let’s start there.”

“Okay,” Clint said.

“We can do the same routine we did in Côte d’Azur.”

“Okay.”

“Except with aliens.”

“Okay.”

“And then maybe I’ll take off all my clothes and dance the macarena.”

“Okay.”

“Clint,” Phil said, stopping in the shadow of a building. “Talk to me.”

Clint did not talk to him.

“Let’s break this down,” Phil said. “Number one. You’re mad that I died. Two. You blame yourself for the attack on the carrier, and through some illogical mental gymnastics, think my death was your fault as well. Three. You’re upset that I’m partially dead again. Four. You’re upset I’m in love with you. Five. You’re upset I didn’t tell you I was in love with you. Give me some numbers.”

“One,” Clint said after a pause that stretched long enough to make Phil think he wasn’t going to answer. He’d started looking a little stunned after four. “One. Two. Three. Five.”

This time Phil was the one who had to pause. “Prime numbers. I can work with that.”

“I’m a _lot_ pissed off that you died and that you never told me you were in love with me.”

“On a rating of one to ten, ten being high?”

“Going straight for eleven, sir.”

They’ve had worse. Still, Phil winced. “Understood.”

“How long have you been in love with me?”

“Since 2010.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you were destined for amazing things. Incredible things, things that you’d earned and deserved, and I was just—“ Phil gestured back at his own receding hairline, partly dead, jewel-encrusted self.

“What?”

“ _This_. Old, dull, and headed for retirement. I didn’t want to be the one to hold you back. Besides, I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

Clint eyed him and didn’t say anything at first, which was uncharacteristically restrained of him.

“I understand if you don’t want to talk to me right now,” Phil said.

“Kind of been in love with you for years, Phil,” Clint said, ducking his head down in an unusual fit of shyness. “Kind of pissed you look like a Starlight Express Christmas Tree and I can’t turn your lights off with my tongue because you’re a little bit dead.”

Phil had to pause. He was experiencing an all-body tingling feeling. That was probably a side-effect of being somewhat dead, and nothing to do with euphoria. Also, he thought he might be glowing, but that was probably his imagination.

“The partially dead thing a temporary situation,” he said after a minute.

“Yeah.”

“And I have a lot of recovery left ahead of me.”

“I know.” Clint peered through his lashes at Phil. “Thor told me the body paint was non-toxic and tasted like strawberries.”

Phil had to stop again. Blood flow did strange things when you didn’t have any. He cleared his throat. “Focus on, um. On the mission and pick this up later?”

Clint grinned down at his feet.

 

* * *

 

 

 

26 _. They didn’t have depilatory wax available. Mysteriously, Natasha happened to have an Epilady on hand because, she said, you never knew when one might be useful._

 _The next half-hour was rather trying for the men in the room._ [BACK]

 

 

27. _Most humans and viruses, not so much._ [BACK]

 

 

28. _To be clear, Coulson wasn’t all the way dead. He was only mostly dead. This was how the Soyari normally traveled so it was important to the disguise._

 _In retrospect, Death and Thor probably should have mentioned that earlier._ [BACK]

 

 

29. _Phil was going to say something about plagiarism, but apparently this was actually the Knowhere motto, used on all its marketing brochures. The locals have embraced the philosophy Be All You Can Be, along with the philosophy, Steal The ID And Wallet of That Guy Nearby Who Looks Like a Tourist And Be Him Too._

 _Death conducted a lot of business in Knowhere._ [BACK]

 


	9. How to Win Friends and Influence People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No second post this week because I will be off camping, and finishing up editing the last two installments of Talk to Me, thanks to the patient [Kathar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar), who waited all of six months for me to write it!
> 
> A saint. Seriously a saint. Also a damn good writer. Go check her out!

 

It wasn’t Phil’s imagination. He really was glowing.

He contemplated the halo he was casting on the floor in the pub, while Clint covered the patrons. They were cowering in the far end of the room, where they’d stampeded the moment Phil had stepped inside.

Several of them had shot at him. Being somewhat dead turned out to have been fortuitous, since he couldn’t actually be killed any more than he already was. Interestingly, the energy weapons the locals had used hadn’t passed through him like he’d expected. Instead, the Soyari costume he was wearing seemed to have absorbed them somehow. Despite being incorporeal.

Phil regretted not getting a fuller briefing on the Soyari30. Oh well.

“I’m looking for information about a gentleman named Thanos,” Phil told his goggle-eyed audience. “I’d like to ask that anyone who’d like to share please step forward.”

Nobody moved.

“It seems pretty unlikely that none of you know about him,” Phil told them, opting to sound disappointed instead of ominous. “I’m told he’s famous. The tyrant of a thousand worlds, Planetcrusher, Bonegnawer? Ringing any bells?”

“Why should we tell you anything?” asked a strange, ten-foot tall slug-like alien in a space suit, complete with bubble helmet.

“Because I’m a nice person,” Phil said. “I can be not so nice.”

“He really can,” Clint told the alien.

The alien made some kind of gesture. Based on the nervous titters around him, her, it, whatever, it wasn’t a polite one.

“Not scared of you, Soyari,” the slug said. “If your people were so all-powerful, you wouldn’t be extinct. You’re all hype.”

Clint sneaked a peek at Phil, looking for a cue. In normal circumstances, Clint would have already shot him in the foot as both encouragement and object lessons. But it was a slug. In a space suit. Who knew what compromising the alien’s environment might do. Phil opened his mouth.

“That’s—“ he began.

Without warning, the slug made a strange _sqrrrk_ sound. All the lights on his suits suddenly turned red, and then winked out. For a split-second he just stood there, goggle-eyed at Phil. Then he tipped over in a slow-motion fall, crashing like a great, toppled redwood onto the floor.

The room shook.

“—unfortunate,” Phil finished with aplomb, a little bewildered.

I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE THINKING, Death said hastily, popping out of nowhere in the middle of a table. It gave him a strange chopped-in-half look. THAT WASN’T ME.

All the other patrons were still staring at the corpse. Which was somehow _shriveling up_ inside the spacesuit, desiccation on fast forward.

Clint and Phil eyed Death. They seemed to be the only ones able to see him.

Death looked abashed. NO, ALRIGHT, THAT WAS ME. BUT THE TIMING WAS COINCIDENTAL. HE ORDERED A CENTAURI MARGARITA.

Clint blinked.

HE ASKED FOR SALT ON THE RIM. POOR RECREATIONAL OSMOSIS CHOICES AREN'T MY DOMAIN. I DEAL MORE IN ULTIMATE CONSEQUENCES.

The dead alien started to glow. After a few seconds, the phosphorescent light streamed towards Phil to be sucked in by the jewels covering his chest.

His nipples tingled. He _really_ wished he’d gotten a better debrief on the Soyari.

THAT’S NORMAL, Death said in a way that he probably thought was reassuring. YOUR BREASTS ARE EATING HIS DEATH31.

There were a lot of things wrong with that sentence. “Yum,” Phil said in lieu of shrieking and pawing at himself, because that was just what the moment seemed to call for. At least he now had some sort of an explanation for the terror-striking tits situation. 

The remaining aliens stared at him. Most of them backed away.

When in doubt, fake it. Phil smiled graciously at them, trying not to think about what was happening to his chest. The slug’s death, energy, whatever, was giving him a contact high. Well, it wasn’t the first time he had to finish an op while under the influence. “Shall we try that again?” he said amiably. “I’m looking for information on Thanos. Anybody who would like to join the gentleman on the ground, please stay where you are. Anybody who like to help me instead, please step forward.”

After that, it was easy.

 

#

 

“It’s a funny thing. I thought you all were, you know.” The man in the gaming hall gestured at Natasha, up and down. He grinned engagingly. “Mythological.”

She arched her brow, conscious of Steve keeping a watchful eye on her from his nearby conversation with a raccoon.

“Soyari,” the man explained. He’d introduced himself as ‘Peter,’ which had seemed oddly commonplace for outer space. Then again, who was Natasha to judge. “Millennia of ghost stories and hearing about the boogeyman, and suddenly, there you are.”

“We’re not Soyari,” Natasha said.

“No, I know. You’re not all—ghosty. Are you?” He poked experimentally at Natasha. She smiled sweetly at him and didn’t break his arm. He seemed pleased with what he found. “Flesh and blood. So that makes you Soyari slaves, right?”

Natasha tipped her head.

“That’s rough,” Peter said sympathetically. He leaned on the bar, inclining a little closer and lowering his voice. “I hear they eat souls. Like, just suck them out of the bodies of their enemies like they’re Slurpees or something. I also hear they’re really bad in bed.”

Natasha lowered her lashes and smiled up through them at Peter, whose eyes brightened. “Is that what you hear?”

“Now me,” Peter said, “I’ve gotten great reviews on what I can do in the sack. Signed testimony. And I’ve never sucked a _soul_ in my life. And not to blow my own horn or anything, but I’ve saved the galaxy a couple of times.”

“Really?”

“Well, it was really the one time. But it was really dangerous and dramatic. There was this crazy Kree guy, Ronon the Accuser, with these ugly-ass skull ninjas and this big murder ship, it was this whole thing. The Nova Corps were all, _help me! Help me! Save me! Save me! Aargh!_ ” He wiggled his hands in the air, squeaking, before returning to his ordinary voice and finishing smugly, “I don’t like to brag, but I saved the day. They gave us all medals.”

“‘Us’?”

“Well, me, and Rocket over there—“ He indicated the raccoon, now engaged in enthusing over explosives with Steve. “—And then Groot and Drax, and Gamora, she’s around somewhere. We’re the Guardians of the Galaxy. That’s what we call ourselves.”

“Wow.” Natasha pressed a little closer and let her breast brush his arm. Peter’s eyes went a bit glassy. “And what does that mean, being a Guardian of the Galaxy?”

Peter stared down at where she was trailing a fingertip down his chest. He was a bit like a golden retriever, Natasha reflected. If he had a tail, it would be wagging right now. She should introduce him to Clint. “It’s mostly running around, finding stuff, saving people, stopping evil— hey, you might like this. Check this out.”

He dug into his jacket pocket and produced a silver sphere. He held it up for her inspection.

“Genuine Celestial soul-catcher,” he said proudly. “Only one left in existence. You wouldn’t believe what we had to do in order to get this. It was living in an asteroid field, disguised as this amazingly _hot_ A’askavariian, all silver—not as hot as you,” he made haste to amend. “Just, you know. For an A’askavariian.”

“It just looks like a ball now,” she pointed out.

“Well sure, because it’s dormant. Waiting for a new soul.” He tossed it up in the air and caught it again. “Awesome, isn’t it?”

OH. YOU FOUND A SOUL-CATCHER. THAT’S UNFORTUNATE.

Natasha didn’t like being snuck up on. She had enough self-discipline not to react though, instead pressing herself up against Peter in a hot, slinky line. He shivered.

“What does it do?” she asked huskily.

IT SUCKS THE SOULS OUT OF BODIES AND IMPRISONS THEM OUTSIDE OF TIME, Death said gloomily. I NEVER LIKED THEM. THEY RUIN MY SCHEDULE AND I NEVER KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH THE LEFTOVERS. DO I TAKE THEM? DO I LEAVE THEM? DO THEY GO INTO THE COOLER, OR CAN THEY BE STORED AT ROOM TEMPERATURE? 

“It’s like a jail for highly evolved beings. It’s probably even powerful enough to take down a Titan. Hey. I have an idea.” Peter brightened, his metaphorical tail wagging again. “We could trick your Soyari into it. That sounds good, right? It’d be all in line with our mission statement, vanquishing evil, saving people, all that. I bet you’d like freedom.” He looked her over again. “And if you sold the stuff you’re wearing, you’d be phenomenally rich afterwards. There’s a hot market for Soyari stuff. Crazy demand and zero supply.”

“I suppose you could help me with that?”

“I know people. For a small commission, I could hook you up. I’m a hook-up _expert._ ”

IF YOU'RE DONE, WE COULD GO. THERE’S A NICE TEA HOUSE ON THE NEXT LEVEL UP, Death said, sounding hopeful. THEY DO JAM COOKIES.

“Sounds delightful,” Natasha breathed up at Peter.

“Great,” Peter said, looking dazed. “I’ll just— yeah, we can just look for your Soyari. Gamora’ll understand. It’s not a one-time use thing. We can grab your Soyari, and then we can go after Thanos, no problem, it’ll just be a minor detour—“

“Thanos?”

“Oh, Gamora,” Peter said looking over Natasha’s head. She turned to spy a green woman working her way through the crowd towards them. Natasha tensed, recognizing a kindred spirit in the woman’s prowl. “Hey, good timing!“ said Peter. “Gamora, this is—you know what, I never caught your name.”

OH, said Death. HM. YOU MENTIONED WANTING TO BE INCONSPICUOUS.

“Natalie,” Natasha said.

“Don’t be nervous, Natalie. I know she’s got a reputation, but Gamora doesn’t do that mass slaughter, empire conquering thing anymore. She’s a good guy now. Well, good _gal_ now, technically,” Peter said, but Gamora wasn’t looking at them. She was looking just behind Natasha, struggling to focus on—

LEAVING NOW MIGHT BE A GOOD IDEA?

—Death.

Gamora’s eyes widened.

OH WELL.

“You,” she said incredulously.

HELLO AGAIN, GAMORA, Death said. He sounded uneasy. YOU’RE LOOKING ALIVE? 

“ _You!_ ” Gamora spat.

She drew her knives and dove at Natasha. Or maybe she was diving at Death. It made little difference from Natasha’s point of view. She grabbed the sphere out of Peter’s hand and spun on a foot, landing a roundhouse kick into the side of Gamora’s head.

Nearby, she heard the crash of Steve’s table overturning, the raccoon yelling, “Hey! That’s _my_ psychopath you’re kicking, lady!” and Peter’s voice lamenting, “ _Every_ time!”

Someone screamed. Something exploded. People started running for the exit.

Death sighed. Steve’s shield ricocheted through him and knocked a blaster out of Peter’s hand.

I’LL JUST STAND OVER HERE, SHALL I?

 

#

 

There was running.

“You want to tell us what that was about?”

NOT REALLY.

“It would have been helpful to know there was someone here who could see you and had issues!”

MOST PEOPLE HAVE ISSUES. IT’S PART OF THE MORTAL CONDITION, I EXPECT. YOU SHOULD RUN FASTER, Death advised, peering back at the howling mob rampaging after them. ONE OF THEM IS RIDING A TREE.

 

* * *

 

30\. _To be fair to both Death and Thor, they did tell Phil that the Soyari were 'Death Eaters' before they left. Unfortunately, neither of them had cultural context, and so Phil was left thinking they were time-traveling, Disco-themed Harry Potter cosplayers from outer space. In retrospect, it seemed clear that Phil still wasn't firing on all cylinders, intellectually speaking._ [BACK] 

 

31.  _To say Phil's breasts were 'eating death' was a trifle misleading. Obviously, they weren't eating death. That would be ridiculous. And it didn't even taste good._

_Although it was another eight years before Phil could so much as see a slug without having to hide an inappropriate erection._ [BACK] 


	10. The Quiet Before the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life in turmoil, alas! And so my editing project has fallen faaar behind where I wanted it to be. By way of apology, have another installment of this.

 

“So that looks like it went well,” Banner said, standing bemused in the kitchen door when Binky crashed (metaphysically speaking) through the 72nd floor wall of Stark Tower.

Death and the Avengers disembarked. Binky turned back into a horse and wandered away to stick his head in the cooler. Banner blinked once at his colleagues’ costumes and took hasty refuge behind his mug.

“Welcome back, Agent Barton, Agent Romanov, Captain Rogers, Mister Death. It’s good to see you alive, for a given value of ‘alive,’ Agent Coulson,” Jarvis said. “I’ve let Sir know you have arrived.”

“TTHhanANKk yoYOuU, JaARrvVIisS,” Coulson, Rogers, and Death chimed together.

“Thor?” Coulson asked.

“He went to visit Jane in London,” Banner said.

“Shall I notify the medical floor that you are en route, Agent Romanov?” Jarvis asked.

“Yes, please,” Coulson said, and, “I really need to change,” Rogers added grimly. In a few seconds, almost all of the humans had disappeared on errands of one sort or another.

Death stood in the middle of the room and looked at Banner. Banner looked back at him.

“So. Still Death,” Banner said.

YES.

“Okay,” Banner said, and went to sit on one of the sofas.

Death watched Banner settle himself comfortably with his legs crossed, put on a pair of bifocals, and open a book. His mug smelled of tea. Something herbal.

It looked restful. Death folded away his scythe, and went into the kitchen. He found the tea and made himself a cuppa. Then he came out again, settled in the sofa across from Banner, and pulled his book and bifocals out of his robes. They spent the next hour in comfortable, undemanding silence, the only sound the occasional rustle of a page being turned.

Which was how everybody found them an hour later.

“Cozy,” Stark said. He clapped his hands together in an outburst of enthusiasm while the others arranged themselves around the room. The rest of them had bathed and changed, with the exception of Agent Coulson, who was still a little bit dead. “Okay! Debrief time?”

Death listened with great interest to what followed. A ‘debrief’ was nothing like he’d thought it was, involving, as it did, far less community nudity than he’d expected. He was rather impressed, really. In terms of verbal information exchange, it was one of the more efficient he’d ever seen.

Always excepting the inclusion of Stark, naturally.

“So to sum up,” Stark said. “Thanos is killable, but he’d probably bounce back from anything short of several nuclear bombs, and even that’s uncertain. He was blowing up planets before he fixated on Death, so he probably won’t give that up even if he stops wanting to knock uglies.”

I BEG YOUR PARDON?

“Natasha will explain later,” Stark said airily.

“Have sex,” Romanov said, without looking up from her phone.

OH.

“Back to the summary—“

WHICH PART ARE THE UGLIES?

Barton gestured, occupied with his own phone.

AH. YOU REFER TO GENITALIA.

“—He’s an egotistic, narcissistic, genius—“

BECAUSE WHEN YOU SAID ‘UGLIES,’ I THOUGHT YOU WERE REFERRING TO OTHER THINGS.

Romanov reached out and patted Death on the shoulder.

“—sadistic psychopath who has already conquered a good two-fifth of the known universe—“

I AM COMFORTABLE WITH THE WAY I LOOK. I AM AWARE IT DOES NOT ALWAYS MEET CULTURAL STANDARDS FOR BEAUTY, BUT THAT DOES NOT BOTHER ME.

“—and could literally squash us like ants with his giant purple thumb. Also, Agent’s boobs eat people. Am I talking to myself right now? Is anyone paying attention at all?”

Banner, Rogers, and Coulson raised their hands.

“Good for you,” Barton congratulated Death.

THANK YOU.

“ _Seriously_?” Stark said.

“I’m enjoying the irony here,” Coulson told Banner and Rogers. “How about you?”

Banner and Rogers nodded.

“He’s also got kids, but since they all want him dead, they probably won’t be doing any retaliating,” Barton volunteered.

“So what’s the plan?” Stark asked. “I’m assuming there is one.”

The Avengers and Coulson had spent some time conferring on the way back, so it wasn’t a surprise to Death, at least, when Romanov tossed the Soul-catcher at Stark and it turned into Pepper Potts just in time to fall into Stark’s arms.

“Pepper!” Stark said, staggering as he caught her. “You’re supposed to be in Tokyo. Wait.”

“Good afternoon, Ms. Potts,” Jarvis said. “I didn’t see you come in.”

“ _Pepper_ is your plan? Bad plan. No plan. Rethink the plan.”

“I don’t even get a kiss hello?” Pepper-the-Celestial-Soul-catcher asked, toeing off her high heels so she’d be the same height as Stark.

“Did you tell it to do that?” Barton asked Romanov, and at her shake of head, amended, “Did you know it could do that?”

“Please don’t kiss the Soul-sucking alien prison wearing your girlfriend, Stark,” Coulson said.

Stark pointed at Coulson. “Don’t call my girlfriend names. I don’t call _your_ girlfriend names.”

“You called me Big Bird less than five minutes ago,” Barton said.

“It was a term of endearment. I feel like we’re missing a few uploads here. Explain to me why Pepper was a silver ball just a few seconds ago and is now—wow, okay, we’re doing that in public now, this is a thing we do? I thought we had a rule about this, and when I say ‘we,’ I mean ‘Pe—‘ Bad touching! Bad touching!”

Death looked at Romanov.

“Sex,” she explained.

He sighed. It seems to him that most things involving Stark ended up in sex one way or another.

“Yeah, okay, this isn’t Pepper,” Stark decided, extricating himself with difficulty. “I’m pretty sure Pepper’s going to stab someone through the eye with a really tasteful and expensive shoe, or, I don’t know, skip right to the flambé if she sees what her doppelgänger just did,” Stark backpedaled around the sofa and took refuge behind Rogers, while the Soul-catcher stretched languidly and then smiled slowly at Banner.

“Hi, Bruce,” Not-Pepper said throatily. “Can I run my fingers through your chest hair?”

Banner turned pink and uncomfortable. “Uh,” he said.

“I’m not gonna lie, _that_ there is pretty much a dream come true right now,” Stark said wistfully. “Jarvis, lose the tape on this. It never happened. Could somebody—else—please get her—it—under control? There’s something I never thought I’d say. I can’t handle these sudden highs and lows. They’re dizzying.”

Coulson explained some of the background about the Soul-catcher. “The plan,” Coulson finished, while Romanov took over the situation and managed to restore the Soul-catcher to its original sphere shape, “is to use that to imprison Thanos. Apparently it can mimic anyone. Provided we can get Thanos into contact with it, it should have the ability to restrain him indefinitely.”

“When you say ‘restrain him indefinitely,’ what does that mean, exactly?”

Death hesitated. IT CONTAINS HIS SOUL UNTIL IT IS RELEASED, AT WHICH TIME IT MAY RETURN TO HIS BODY IF IT IS STILL FUNCTIONAL. In the interests of honesty, he admitted, AND SOMETIMES EVEN IF IT ISN’T.

“Is that where zombies come from?” Barton asked with professional interest.

I DO NOT KNOW ZOMBIES32.

“It sounds great,” Stark said, waving dismissively. “You know what it also sounds like? Really convenient. It doesn’t seem suspiciously convenient to you? Some guy in a space station just _happened_ to have a thing that was powerful enough to trap Thanos, the only one of its kind in the known universe? And Romanov just _happened_ to run into the guy who had it when she was gathering intel on what could stop Thanos?”

Romanov, her feet pillowed comfortably on Barton’s lap, suggested, “Convenient like Pepper just _happening_ to frame your old arc reactor and leave it in your workshop so when Obie took your new one, you had it around?”

“Or your father just _happening_ to have invented a new element that would save your life when your arc reactor started poisoning you?” Barton added.

“That wasn’t convenient, that was a pain in my ass,” Stark countered.

“How about how Obie, who was smart enough to run a Fortune 100 company, steal it out from under you, commit treason for years by selling to terrorists, act like your friend your entire life and still manage to sell you to the Ten Rings without ever _once_ making you suspicious—and just _happened_ to leave video evidence of his complicity easily findable on his work laptop for months?” Romanov asked.

“Fine. I’m sold,” Stark admitted, and threw up his hands. “This is me, sold. So what’s the catch? There’s always a catch.”

“We can’t just change it to look like Death and throw it at Thanos,” Coulson said.

“Why not?”

“He’s smarter than you,” Romanov said.

“Now that’s just mean,” Stark complained.

“According to all the intel, he’s paranoid enough—with reason—that nothing solid is allowed within ten meters of him. The Soul-catcher needs to be in skin contact with him for at least five minutes for it to work.”

“Apparently, he can’t be overpowered,” Rogers said. “Although it’s possible that the Hulk—“

Banner looked up. “I’m trying to cut back on wrestling matches with galaxy-conquering alien tyrants this week,” he said mildly.

“—And even then it isn’t likely,” Coulson admittedly. “It’s impossible to say exactly how powerful he is, but it seems from all accounts he could be more powerful than the Hulk.”

“So five minutes. Slam, bang, thank you ma’am? Worst case scenario that’s three minutes right there.”

SEX AGAIN? Death asked Romanov.

Romanov nodded.

MAYBE HE HAS A CONDITION.

Romanov nodded again.

“So how’re we going to get Thanos with it?” Stark asked suspiciously.

 

* * *

 

 

“Wow,” Stark said, several minutes later. “That is a really _stupid_ plan.”

“Yes,” Coulson said thoughtfully. “I’m a little impressed myself. Maybe I’m still under the influence of the death nipples.”

Stark looked despite himself, shuddered, and covered his eyes.

“They’re still perky,” Coulson said unnecessarily.

“Unclean,” Stark moaned.

“It’s not . . . the worst plan I’ve ever done,” Rogers said, a little pink-faced.

“You flew your plane into the ocean. That was your definition of a plan,” Barton pointed out, and Rogers conceded the point with a shrug.

“It sounds like something out of a predictable fairy tale,” Romanov said.

“All fairy tales are predictable,” Banner said. “That’s why they’re tropes.”

They all looked at Death.

I LIKE IT, Death said. He did, too. It felt _right_. The Avengers (and Coulson) were looking dubious, so he did one of those finger-lift things that humans on this planet seemed to find so encouraging. They stared at him. GOOD PLAN.

“Are you trying to be supportive or sarcastic?” Stark asked him.

YES?

“Don’t do that.”

Stark seemed distressed. Perhaps he needed some morale boosting33.

He gave Stark his very own encouraging finger.

Stark squawked and dropped it.

 

* * *

 

 

32\. Not true: Death knows a great many zombies. He just knows them as ‘leftovers.’ [BACK]

33\. Albert claimed that was something mortals needed from time to time, morale boosting. Death didn’t understand exactly what a morale was, but he was fairly certain it was some kind of mushroom. [BACK]


	11. Bet You Thought I Forgot This Story, Didn't You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so sorry, I had a lot of stuff happening, Life, things, bibbity bobbity, you know, so I didn't update this.
> 
> Have an itty bitty _yay it's not dead!_ update, just to remind you all this is still alive. I have some overhaul to do on the next chapter (wherein Thanos makes an appearance) which I'll try to do over the weekend or maybe not this weekend but at some point when Life lets up a bit.

 

The next part of the plan mostly involved Death being a chauffeur. Thor helpfully assisted.

Death and Binky took Banner and Rogers to find a Otswatsian Slurp, which had the distinction of being both the deadliest and cutest animal in the universe. Attempting to capture it alive proved difficult until the Hulk cleverly allowed it to eat him whole first, and then killed it by ripping his way out through the stomach. This required it to take some time to regenerate internal organs and revive, which gave Death the time to transport it to the black hole Stark had determined would be adequate to their needs.

Thor took Romanov and Barton to the Bazaar of Dreams, where they purchased a Kt’kn Labyrinth and also some Honchi peppers, which weren’t on the shopping list but Romanov decided were important anyway. The peppers ate a hole through Thor’s cape. Barton put what was left of the them in Rogers’s oatmeal container, where they caused much excitement the next morning. The Kt’kn Labyrinth, Death took to the black hole.

After this, Death and Binky took a break to visit Lower Tadfield, England for a family reunion. The Avengers had a pool party.

In not entirely unrelated news, the apocalypse was canceled.35

Death returned. He and Binky took Coulson, Barton, and Romanov to collect Grakl worms from the fifth dimension. Thor took Stark and Banner to find a Watcher Puzzle, which almost killed Stark.

There were a few more errands of the sort. Stark started drinking heavily around the time they picked up a Legion of the Damned and nine of them tried to ~~eat~~ have sex with him.

Finally, Death took Coulson (still mostly dead) and the Celestial Soul-catcher to the black hole, where Coulson directed the rearrangement of their collection as he saw fit.

“Explain this to me again?” Barton asked plaintively, when everything was done and they were back in Stark’s living room. The Avengers were draped in various states of exhaustion around the furniture. Banner and Romanov were reading and drinking tea.

“We’re making a McGuffin,” Coulson said.

I DO NOT KNOW MCGUFFIN, Death said.

“A thing that the hero has to go on a quest to retrieve purely for the purpose of having a plot,” Stark said.

AH. YES. Death nodded. NARRATIVIUM36. The deposits of Narrativium on this planet were unusually strong.

Stark perked up. “Narrativium? What’s—“

“Later, Stark,” Coulson said, cutting him off with the ease of long practice. “We make a McGuffin. Thanos goes after the McGuffin. He assumes it’s a trap, so we meet his expectations by making the way in easy, and the way out as difficult as we can. That way, he misses that the McGuffin is the trap.”

“This feels like a George Lucas movie,” Barton complained. "An Indiana Jones or a Superman something."

Coulson grimaced. “Like I said, it's not one of my best. It’s predictable. People find predictability comforting.”

“Hah," said Stark. He rolled his eyes. "Any second now, Agent Agent will announce he’s Birdy’s father.”

Rogers looked confused. Coulson looked pained. Barton rolled his head back and groaned. “ _Please_ , no,” he said. “That would make things so weird in the sack.”

A fraught silence fell.

“Wait,” Stark said at last. “Wait. Wait. Wait. What? _What_?!”

Barton grinned. Romanov, still reading her book, raised her hand to hi-five Barton without looking.

“How can you two be boning already? Coulson’s _dead!_ ” Stark said.

"You know what they say. The mind's the biggest erogenous zone," Barton said smugly.

_"Dead!"_

“ _Mostly_ dead. You know what can bring things back from the dead?”

Coulson pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t say it."

“My sweet Georgia peach _ass_ can,” Barton drawled, and stretched in a way that left nothing to the imagination 38.

“You said it,” Coulson sighed.

“You’re from Iowa!” Stark protested, before derailing with, “Oh, _yuck_. I need another drink.”

“If I had blood flow, I’d be blushing,” Coulson murmured.39

“If you had blood flow, we’d be doing something a hell of a lot more interesting than this,” Barton told him.

Romanov slapped him upside the head. Stark moaned and swigged from a bottle of very expensive tequila.

Rogers was bright red, but persevered nonetheless. “Congratulations,” he said earnestly. “I’m happy for you both.”

“Thank you,” Coulson said.

“So now that the . . . the _McGuffin_ part of this is done, it’s time for the next step, right?” Banner said, rubbing at the lines of strain on his forehead.

“I’ll need the Hulk and Captain Rogers for the next part,” Coulson said. “And you and Binky, of course,” he added to Death. Barton opened his mouth, scowling. “No, Barton. And before the rest of you complain, I’m taking the ones least likely to be squashed like an ant by the megalomaniac superpowered galactic tyrant.”

“I resent that,” Stark said. “I rate a cockroach at the very least.”

“Maybe a dungbeetle,” Romanov said.

Barton gritted his teeth and moved to the bar. Stark took a look at him and offered him the tequila. “You look like you need this almost as much as I do. You want to party too, Agent Agent? Oh wait. You’re dead. Dead-ish. Dead don’t dance.”

“Comedic repartee aside, maybe we’d better just move along to the next part of this op,” Coulson said. “I’d like to finish up before dinner. I’d prefer not to remain undead longer than strictly necessary.”

“Putting a crimp in your love life?” Stark asked. “Oh shit,” he said, and slapped his hand over his mouth.

Too late.

“If only,” Barton said into the tequila bottle. “Although it’s bigger than a crimp. Much bigger than a cramp. _Definitely_ bigger than a—“

“Right,” Coulson said. “Next scene.”

 

#

 

* * *

 

 

35\. Further details can be found in [Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch](http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780060853983) as written by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, and published by HarperTorch, Mass Market Paperbound. Or by any Marvel comic with a swimming pool in it. [BACK]

 

 

36\. Narrativium, a metaphysical element, is responsible for ensuring that everything runs properly in a story. It ensures, for example, that if a king remarries after his wife has died in childbirth, his new wife will inevitably be beautiful and evil. The youngest son of a family with three brothers will inevitably go on a quest and marry a princess. The girlfriend of a male protagonist will inevitably be slain so that the hero can suffer man pain and avenge himself on her slayer37.

Also, all carnival-graduating, bow-wielding superhero orphaned sons of rednecks will wear spandex and contort into anatomically unlikely poses as satirical social commentary on so-called feminine allure. However, that’s not inevitable. That’s just a bonus. [BACK]

37\. No, Pepper Potts was not in the refrigerator. Binky already checked. [BACK]

 

38\. Death, not having that kind of imagination, had nothing left to it. Because he didn’t imagine anything. In that respect he was more fortunate than you, dear Reader, who should currently be imagining Clint's bare torso arching up, his hips grinding urgently against Phil's unyielding body. Also, oil. There should definitely be oil. You should be imagining his skin glistening as he moans and grips hard at Phil's thighs. Also the gleam of light across the flex of Clint's ass, the shadow of bruises left by strong hands, the line of his neck as he throws his head back to whimper, his eyes sliding closed. . . .

Unless you also don’t have that kind of imagination. In which case, the management offers its sincere apologies. [BACK]

 

39\. Though he was unaware, all sorts of interesting things were happening to Coulson’s actual body in the SHIELD medical center, which did have blood flow. Sarjinder had been working for SHIELD a long time. This wasn’t his first rodeo. Like a true professional, he took detailed clinical notes. Later, Coulson would trade him tickets to an award-winning Broadway show in exchange for all the copies, and a bottle of Stark's best scotch to assist in therapeutic amnesia. [BACK]


End file.
